Love
Oh it is so many strange things, it flies your heart
to the moon on wings, takes you to the stars
on a cold dark night, and shelters you
from the sun when it’s too hot and bright.
It is hugs and tears and silence and noise,
it is awkward and gangly and then graceful
poise. You can’t live without it, it swallows you
whole. It takes you to the depths and the heights,
through the heat and the cold. It is your heart
and your head and your gut all sick and wrenched.
It is standing in the rain,water seeping into your clothes,
getting drenched. It finds you in the desert, in the mountains
and the sea. It doesn’t care who you are, just that you
allow it to be. It is love, it is love, and it is never
the same, but it is love, it is love, call it by its name.
Sin City
The hot wind blows you, tumbling across the desert,
seeking something, thirsty and empty but
wanting to be filled. In the distance, a mirage,
a refuge, an escape that glitters before you in neon,
where one thousand and one nights of dreams could come true,
framed by palm trees and red rocks, where bourbon
and smoke linger at 2 am when you come outside and the
air is still too hot for breathing, but the moon hangs
over the neon lights and beckons. So you seek something
cool, something dark and and slow, like the slow trumpet
of a jazz song, like Sinatra, like an old movie in a beaten down
theater, like your dream of the lights on Broadway shimmering
on wet pavement. A gangster, a movie star, a jazz musician,
with red lipstick and sensible shoes. Maybe here is
your lucky meteor, here is the five aces or a royal flush,
and the ringing of the jackpot bells, here is always a pool to dip
your toes in late in the morning, and then after hours
steaks and martinis, no chill of winter, no grey of the city streets.
Dripping
Today the sun broke over the mountains, like an egg,
the yolk spilling out of it’s shell
And it drips along the rocks and the light spills into the cracks filled by darkness
Tonight the rum splashed, small drops on the counter in a get away
attempt from the confines of the glass, the walls that held it in
When I swallow the tangy sweetness it burns
Down my throat with warmth and light that seeps into my muscles and mind
And I become slow, not spilling, seeping,
The world around me like a sponge soaking me in, like the light permeating the shadows
In time though, it fades again, a circle, a loop,
Back into the sweet nothingness of night, of sleep, of the void of space and the
twinkling of stars and galaxies and worlds, like an ebbing tide, It will come back
around, again,
Always
Ash
this is not snow
silently falling from the sky,
small, white-grey flakes settling into earth.
it is a mournful lament for
the dead and the burnt,
floating and falling from the sky like destruction.
it scatters to the wind, covers like a soft blanket,
to wait for spring and resurrection.
at sunset, it glows orange and crimson,
reflecting back the the flames of the fire that created it.
faded
this flower did not bloom for you that day,
this fragile poppy, crushed under your left shoulder as you
lay in the field with his arm around you.
you press it in paper and leave it in a book, the
lingering scent of that brief spring day, when the clouds
crossed the sky slowly, and he pushed you down in a kiss,
the flower pressed under you. you wonder if it could have kept
the passion of that faded moment in its fragile petals. and
between the pages of an old book, you hide it, as though to keep the kiss
locked away and safe for memory.
years, and it fades to brown, papery and stiff, musty.
it does not hold the moment of passion anymore, it’s defeated purpose
when it bloomed in mountain silence and then you took it away
as though it could hold a memory in the color of its petals.
slightly
this is not a question you should ask,
although you ask it without words, but simply
looking, questioning eyes.
our toes trace lazy circles in the sand, the sweat
clings to the back of my knee, and i raise
my hand to block out the bright of the sun, and breathe deep.
this is not an answer to be given, or to be spoken.
there will be a moment, late at night when i will answer,
when the cool night air rustles the blinds.
and wordless, in darkness, when you ask silently again,
i will trace those lazy circles on your skin and
not look away.
in the yukon
i would like to scream now,
to let my voice cross this vast wilderness
to reach the distant mountain before me,
to cross what my body cannot.
I want to scream across this distance
and hear my echo come back.
I want to make my voice larger than myself,
to overcome in seconds
the thing that cannot be overcome.
I want to scream across this divide,
and shatter the vast silence that pushes
down on me,
break through this wilderness
that threatens to make me insignificant.
Troy
my love is the ocean,
deep, dark, unbounded,
it is drowning,
it is a rage in a storm
and a cool balm on a summer day.
my love brings down empires
unfaithful but binding
it knows death and birth and blood and tears
and the pull of the moon
and the burning of the sun.
but my love is not constant, nor unchanging,
it is passionate and cool,
it will burn bright and engulf you in flames,
it will cool you by starlight as a fading ember.
and in the moment of silence before it shatters,
before the walls crumble,
it is a deep breath, a soft kiss,
it is our fingers intertwined,
this love is eternal, this cycle,
this rebirth of love and hate and passion.
widow
the ring became a closed circle between us,
a slender silver weight on my finger, a heaviness,
a reminder of you, of your hands entwined with mine.
I let myself feel the weight of it when he talks to me,
twirl it around on my skin and let it stick. I look away.
he does not come back and I go home, alone,
dragging this hand that reminds me that I am supposed to love you.
and then I ache, for lightness, for bare skin,
I ache for your fingers entwined in my fingers,
the touch of your palm on mine, and this stupid silver ring
that touches some mystical connection to my heart,
this silver ring that I don’t know yet how to take off, even when you are gone.
our circle closed, my heart given though silence comes back in return.
almost
this skin that is pale and slightly puffy,
sometimes cold to the touch
it could remind you of a rose about to bloom
if you imagined hard enough. if you
closed your eyes and saw through that.
i could be standing in your doorway
with a long skirt and high heels and snow would
be falling around me and my lips
would be like a lake you wanted to dive into when you were young,
but were told to stay away. i could be forbidden.
or sweet. or sweetly forbidden.
this skin on my shoulder could be soft,
and you would think of silk as you touched it,
crying and wanting and needing
i could be a dangerous obsession.
oh, but here and now,
with my white lips,
pale unpolished fingernails,
tangled hair,
her i am imperfect, slighted.
sometimes pimpled. awkward.
but i could whisper those words, i could wear that dress.
i could pretend.
for just a moment, i could be the wind catching in the trees,
i could stand among the stars,
i could be the fantasy you dreamt of, once, long ago,
i could breathe in the sweetness of your breath,
and reflected in your eys
i could see myself and there would be beauty
and patience and perfection.
but i would give those stars up, just to have you see me,
like this, now, this moment, this pale beauty
diving into that lake but only briefly skimming.
between seconds.
between us.
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