It’s her job to clean up
after Things Go Wrong.
The mattress where he soundly slept,
twisted up in the blue and grey sheets,
the lace-ends frayed and tied together.
Holes by the toes
that defied any needle and thread
rest his red shoes,
scrunched between the fabric ,
searching for air,
screaming redder and redder
for relief from the static stench.
The red does fade,
but newer drops of a deeper shade reside.
Where did he go?
He needs these shoes, she thinks as she sweeps
Where did they put him
after Things Went Wrong.

Outside my window I see a kite,
red as a cherry right before its prime,
flying against a grey sky.
It's struggling to escape, relentless like a dog on a leash,
tugging and stretching until its tongue hangs out.
A boy with clumsy sneakers and a curious smile,
with skinny legs like knobby branches,
and a freckled, sun-burned, smiling face,
feels its tugging and stretching,
but decides with great determination,
to never let it get away.

She jumps
and leaps
and trips
and runs
on a quest to her sacred swing in the park.
Her sister leaps along, aching for the swing.
They weave through kids
like rival sharks towards a catch.
Past a swordfish,
past a carp,
towards that tasty turtle-seat, hanging like bait.
Her foot gets tangled,
now in kelp,
now in coral.
She slips on the rocks and hits something sharp.
Her sister sprint-swims to find help,
but the fin isn't bleeding and she’s up and swimming,
beckoning her sister with her swip-swish tail.
She dives forward to the turtle, grinning
as she slams into its shell,
her sisters slams into her.
They knew they'd seize their petty prey,
swinging faster,
swinging higher,
each time
to break the water surface,
to break into the sky.

Four of us sit in the living room, too close to the TV.
The baby isn't yet born and Mom peeks around the corner.
It’s a cartoon Saturday morning
and the sun-dust sifts through the blinds,
warming our backs and inviting us out to play.

We each have a plate of carrots,
and we peel the wrinkled, grey-orange skin
To reveal a bright, porous flesh
that we crunch with little canines,
shifting with wet tongues the carrot to each side.

Bugs Bunny always eats carrots,
chewing the same as we are.
His teeth and big cheeks fill up the screen,
as he looks at our bulging faces,
bursting full of carrot and silent laughter
as bits of orange glisten on our cheeks.

It’s risky so high, so shaky, so vulnerable.
He peeks over the edge at the people like ants.
Suits and cell phones, all black and business.
Each with a mission in their click-clack heels.
“Back to business, Boy,” grunts Boss, chewing on a soggy cigarette.
Boy wonders if the click-clackers ever mistake cigarette spit for rain

His reflection is transparent but he can still make out
the scar above his eye and the stubble of sleepy dawns
when he stretches and drinks black coffee early with the sun.
Through the reflection the black business arrives.
The magic elevator transforms all ants into stock-market men
and credit-card women who close the curtains.

He wonders how he ended up on the outside,
towering the city with a dripping squeegee,
pulling it over black, lifeless curtains, opaque to the morning sun.
But Boss is busy now with a fresh cigarette
so he turns back around and remembers why he towers
as the magic sun transforms the magic stars
into meshing morning colors, high enough to meet his eye.

It’s a foggy autumn
Or maybe it’s a foggy memory.
The trees are trying on new tints;
The vermilion of my favorite matches my sweater,
with my name embroidered and a brand new zipper.
I scrunch my brow, and bite my tongue,
trying to introduce the metallic sides.
They quickly say h-h-hello but don't want to get along.
I try and try; mom smiles and says they'll warm up.
I let them go to take a deep breath.
I inhale and close one eye
and finally, as one vermilion leaf falls,
the left side feels romance and gives the right a kiss.
Zip zip zzzzzzip--
I love to see them love,
with my hands in the air and my chest kept warm.

All of us are anxious to see
who will run in first,
kicking and screaming and splashing up the water.

A moment before the brave one starts,
with mouth open, waiting for a drink,
it stares at us with wide, unblinking eyes.

Stagnant, naked, and unabashed,
it's imperfections pronounced
loud and clear.

The scales slowly shrivel and flake,
yellows fade to greys as the odor grows to stench.
No one says a word, not even the girls.

Little lake wars tug lightly at its fins,
coaxing it back, regretting the absence it leaves.
It stubbornly stays on shore, sinking lower into the sand.

We decide not to kick or scream or splash,
but to quietly dig up the sand underneath,
giving the lake back it's old friend.

Goodbye, Stubborn Fish.

You cross your i's
and dot your t's
when everyone's watching.

"Have a nice day!"
"You're welcome!"
when everyone's watching.

You sing the alphabet
and count on your fingers
when everyone's watching.

you are
perceived
judged
tallied
misunderstood
when everyone's watching

I put the baby in the stroller every week
so she can see her mother
not a body,
but a tree slowly growing above the headstone,
it's branches stretching and crackling in the breeze.
The baby looks at the tree and coos, because she can still smell
her perfume settled on the leaves,
the leaves that rustle
and barely cover her whispered laugh.
The first week it started raining, so I couldn't see her tears,
and she couldn't see mine,
rolling down, down, back to the earth.
I put this baby in the stroller every week
to visit her mother,
knowing she hasn't let her go.

enemies cross paths
guided by wisdom of old
"were it so easy"

find my strengths and
value them.
encourage them.
coax them .

find my strengths, please
discover them.

The sweat still drips as my body slowly stops.
The air brings sudden chills and the sky is suddenly black.
Wishing to be alone with the yellow moon,
I turn in a circle, sweeping a glance,
searching for anyone, but anyone's vanished.

I once more spin around, soothing my nerves.
Safety is sure.
I can do what I want
as only one will watch what I do.
Here is the yellow moon,
daring me to be wild and free.
To dance for him, to leap for him,
To follow him always.
And so I do.
I follow the moon until morning.

Goodnight,
I'll say hello to the sun

when your heart opens,
wide and unassuming,
chances are it will break.
for time and time again we learn
of hurt and sorrow,
of darkness,
tangible yet elusive,
like the scrawls and smudges of a madman.

some hearts shatter.
all at once smashed, like a hammer to glass.
scattered and kicked around in their past,
fatigued and feeble,
wounded and patchy.
pieces swept up and glued,
embedded in one dark memory.
unforgettable, unforgivable, memory seizes the tired muscle,
choking it, leaving a faint pulse gasping
for some hopeless release.

there are, however, a mighty few--
or maybe a lucky few,
who open up wide and wild, unabashed.
hearts so familiar with ache,
they stretch and pump throbbing, scarred muscles until,
like tired, sunburned fingers soaking up the last bit of the summer sun,
they tremble with exhaustion.
too big to break,
and too strong to shatter.

and oh, those lucky few
who have tried and triumphed,
and churned their heartbreaks into a potent force,
end up so bold, so dauntless,
absorbing the others
as they open.
they scoop up the shattered
they cradle the broken.
though not as quickly,
for bruised hearts carry unfair weight.

together they reach the sun,
and relax their strained, desperate tendons.
and though unfamiliar,
they gently shake awake old muscles
and remember their smile--
the broken,
the shattered,
and the lucky ones.

squeeze my aching heart
slam it down, worthless, broken
it shrivels to dark