Wednesday, February 3, 2016

worth it.

panting tongues and hearts that slam like a screen door in a storm laying quietly so still and the sound of rain pouring against a tin roof.  ratatat ratatat.  under a worrisome stare you say "should we have locked the cellar door?" unwrapping the red dress like a birthday gift and the pressure of your torso is a mountain on mine.  where have you been if not here i wonder who is your mother and do you like your coffee black.  i must be thirsty or it must be winter because the back of my throat is dry.  a souvenir on your keychain shaking when you stir and it's time to go somewhere else home to her and aprons with paisley print and banana nut muffins in the basket on the counter. idling in the driveway your whirring engine humming vibrating our sins into your sternum.  she is buttoned to you but i, i am a wild pitch and it's not til july that i think of you again.

angry knocking tearing clawing fingers ruining my door.  a feral scream.  wild wild wild eyes peeping through the curtained window wide with rage with pain with thirst. i will her away but she never goes and i wonder if she is a ghost or a demon or termites in my basement and attic eating the floors and walls and everything holding me up, holding me together.  a brick through the window ought to do it she thinks and suddenly boom pow smash glass.  she asks if your thin lips and sad eyes were worth it, worth the sharpness under my feet and police on my lawn. i doubt myself but i say i know they were because her fury states your value. and so when you call and say please i say yes and we do.

Thursday, November 6, 2014

unhappy mouth.

so sorry
about your unhappy mouth
deceptively captivating curves
drawing my eyes
to them and back and them and back.
but then i find.
trickery, treachery, deceit.
small lips. dry.
gum-to-teeth ratio
not quite right.
so different than
mine. mine which are
made for movement,
for sliding against.
open. close. your tongue is
slimy, stiff, sad.
i say with a voice not my own
and your miserable mouth grins
its toothsome grin.
'i'llcallyou' you spit
then slip away,
slithering like a snake
back to your ugly Corolla
leave me standing
at my door.
i lose your number.
kissing you was a drag.

on needing space.

[ [ a work in progress ] ]

The first time you have a disagreement, it will be because you ask him for advice that you don't want to hear.  He'll spread his honesty around like tear gas and, have no doubts: it will choke you.  Pretend that his insensitivity is endearing.  Pretend it's part of what you like so much about him.  Pretend you're okay with the word "idiot" sitting at the tip of your tongue. You'll take your three #deepbreaths and sip your guava juice to avoid confrontation.

Lower your glass.  Here it comes:  Getawayfrommeyoustupidass. Howcouldyousaythat? Leavemealone. Ineedsomespace. And there it is.  Live.  In the air.  Soundwaves of regret the second you said it.  Did you mean it? Of course you meant it.  GIVEMESPACEDAMNIT.

But maybe come back later?  I still want to cuddle.

Tuesday, November 4, 2014


fall into the sheets that are slightly damp with sweaty remnants of the last hour.  burrow your face into the crevice between his chin and his collarbone, and wonder if it's true what they say about oxytocin and sex.  consider if you will offend him should you move your deadened left arm.  close your eyes and focus on the  u p d o w n  of his chest as he breathes steadily into a soft slumber.

outside, a late night train rumbles past.  free your arm as he stirs.  let worry set in as the moon arches high in the night sky.  recognize the feeling of panic setting in your chest, hear the what-ifs and what-nows creeping into that toxic mind of yours, urging your voice to rise.  ask if he's okay. (he says he is.)

talk about superhero powers and read him poetry from the book on your night stand.  it's dark in the room but know he's staring at the odd curve of your mouth and the knots cascading through your hair. note the way it makes your skin feel electric against the bedsheets.  pull away when he wraps his legs around yours. pull away because you're afraid that if he's touching you he'll hear the apprehension rattling around in your head.  feel him reach for your hand.


recall the map of footsteps that led you to the wrong beds of the wrong men time and again. remind yourself that for twenty-six years, pulling has done nothing but isolate you.  fight the urge to compare this moment to the hundreds that came before it.  you are not a time traveller. this is new and he is different somehow but you can't explain it and shouldn't try.

study the increasingly familiar shape of his body.  notice the scar beside his left eye, the long fingers of an artist, the constellation of freckles across his chest, illuminated by the moonlight.  hear how his voice pitches and lingers, sticking to the syllables of your name like thick molasses.  listen as your heartbeat hastens - the cadence beneath your ribcage a symphony of affection, beating notes of comfortable madness into your busy brain.  know that this is real and certain and good.

his fingers settle into the space between yours.


let them.

Friday, September 19, 2014

crossed and dotted

another one i can't quite wish to lose.. not mine.

Crossed and Dotted

If I could write you a letter, I would
and I would write it with wire and string
so that when I sent it,
it would slowly unravel
and kink
and bend itself into knots around careless fingers
and memories turned jailbirds
flying to Cozumel but lost in highway-side diners
and the gabled lofts of old barns.

And when it finally reached you,
a whole day would be spent
untangling the intertwining jots and jabs
and picking through the bent mesh grill for scraps of tickets
to rusted-out Ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds.
Two children rapt with attention
and miles of tin-can telephone line,
we would start, one of us at either end -
you steadily leveling-out and me all coils and curls -
tripping and twisting, slowly in concert.

Then, and only then,
could we truly set this mess straight
and start to build
that fragile, immeasurable bridge between us;
the one that expands and contracts as we breathe
and trembles in our laughter,
but mostly sways as we walk together miles and miles apart.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

not mine.

Not written by me.  I found this and I want to save it somewhere.. here seems appropriate.

The one that got away
I did not follow
somewhere across a sea
with dried blood.
The one that took hook, line, sinker,
rod, reel, arm, wrist, hand, shoulder
swallowed me whole
            without breaking stride
or whatever it is the 'big ones' do
that leaves you standing slack-jawed on the shore

That trick of light on the skin
the shimmer-glide through the water
            just beneath the surface
that draws the eye somewhere beyond itself
and drowns it in desire

Open palmed
I stretch across the glittering waves
that hold a darkness I well know.
But eyes see only light or absence of it.
And even inland I still see the glimmer
            of her body as it flits away
shining in my misery
drowning in my blindness

Friday, August 22, 2014

july 13, 2006

18 year old ashley was strange. just thought i should tell you.  and you.  and you and you and you.

it was a mistake, most certainly, for so few great things come planned. quiet, quiet, quietly i whisked my scarf around my neck and crept through the slit between the door and its frame.

and i was out. the cool air danced, nipping at my cheeks and eyelids - it was brisk, slicing, vicious. rubber to the road, i ran, adidas sneakers in a whirl beneath me. it was away i craved.. and away i went.

headlights flashed in either direction, but rarely. it brought me there – it was the moonlight again. my destination. the water ahead and below me was inviting. i jumped! free-falling, falling, falling. seafoam all around me. wrists bound. scarlet fluttering. and burning, burning lungs.