fist famine in the ice box
where the ear flap hats and
rusted tin whistle tombs
ever after frost-framed faces
the color of very chilled blood
echo singular clapping
through institutional hallways

try to look to you
if we see i can go on
in this dark unquiet place
then i smile and
look at those eyes
we make good partners in crime
you and i
but you be strong
don't stand up to be counted

light a cigarette for the good years
for a man never known or found again
huff and puff i sit
in the couch that eats me alive
the sky has had it's limit
and it won't stop crying
coffee is the misery
and the company are memories

I love the things
that get you upset
The more You hate
The stronger I get
You think
Your tough
Because I don't hit
Just don't want
To get dirty
With blood and spit
You call me names
I say" go to church"
I think
you just want
a good beating first

Watch out, the stove is hot.
White iron teeth that will bite your tongue,
split chapped lips,
then eat salt and vinegar crisps.

Sharp streaks of nerves,
grinning with missing incisors
drip in lines down your chin
of green and brown copper.

If I had a fish pond
to throw these dimes into,
I would never have to know
where they came from,
why they didn't fall out of
my coat with the turned up collar.

Unwashed wool wraps and rots
round warped shoulders,
gnarling strained fingers
between ball and socket joints.

Fussy tea cakes and strands of hair
relinquished to the wind
hobble up and down outdoor train stations,
old-fashioned floral prints swept aside,
a puppet show of sickly chicken legs
pocked, potholed and pickpocketed.

Lost in the war, between couch cushions,
baked into blackberry crumble
in go egg whites, out come memories
of snow that tightroped power lines,
good dogs that stayed,
coauthors of the oxford english dictionary.

Badly rolled cigarette smoke in the streets
writes gregorian poetry for darned socks
snagged on shoddy repair jobs,
splintered wooden bones.
Pour yourself a stiffer drink,
it’s going to be a gangrenous winter.

Pinpricks of subtle looks danced across her shoulders as she looked
Doting were the eyes that had warmed her cheeks and haunted her ever restless dreams
How awkwardly brilliant was it for them to fall on her like fate's inconspicuous eye
If only they could go back and replay the childish scenes of teenagers whipering to each other in the privacy that dark seemed to bring
Yes it had felt like goodbye but as a love-struck fool once said
Parting is such sweet sorrow
And why did this bye have to be good anyway
The whispered mummers of I miss you were too real to be so distant now
Weeks pass and the looks are still exchanged over shoulders out of the corners of our eyes
Bright green is quite inviting but do you get lost in a dark blue sea
Or is this temporary fixation of a not yet burnt out love lost on you

Dear daughter,
Let me introduce myself.
Whether you call me your friend, your confidante
Or you call me a jerk and crazy,
I am your mother,
Your Ma, your mom, your momma, your mommy,
Your Mother.
I will be your faithful guide, friend, companion.
I Will be your first teacher and your last.
Sometimes I will be in front of your saying “Nice try! But try again.”
Or I may be beside you unsure of the same answer as you.
But sometimes I will follow behind you, learning from you along the way.
Remember the good times
And the bad, and be scared of your feelings
Because fear is an emotion too.
When you become lost, never let the wonders leave your eyes,
Even though you may wander.
But in your wandering, your small hands could touch nations,
If only you would let them.
Just believe the world has magic in it,
Because the moments of small silence give way
To their own kind of bewitchment.
Sing loud and proud like no one is watching…
And if you can’t, Happy Birthday works just as well.
Look for the glow worms, my child,
The baby fireflies,
Because they are a rare creature indeed
And can only be seen at the darkest of times,
Just like the stars.
Let your eyes be like fireflies and your steps like a prance
Because nothing attracts men like a bright girl who can dance.
So move your way closer to me
Because there is a pigtailed shaped hole in my heart
For the little girl that you will always be to me.
Live as many lives as possible and explore several worlds,
But always follow the banana bread crumbs back home by nightfall
Because nothing good ever happens after eleven…
Unless you are making a wish.
And if you are, load every 11:11 wish with a prayer
And aim it towards the sky.
Send a letter to the stars to make room for one more
Because someday you will shine,
But on your way to the top,
Tread lightly, my child,
And don’t wake the beasts
Because they exist
Trust me, I know.
Even when you are grown and have daughters of your own
Think back to me and remember.
Love,
Your Mother

I was searching my pockets for a story to tell my daughter on the night before Thanksgiving when she was looking especially nineteen, shouldering the immeasurable weight of being nineteen, and I couldn’t find one with a good three-act structure, but I started to tell her about the kind of vaguely existential warm knot I always used to get in my stomach when I went home from school for Thanksgiving, and how I couldn’t decide at the time whether it was happy or sad, but now I knew that it was happy for certain, and when you think about how once things change they are not changing back it can be a little heavy, but you don’t have to think about it too often, and we had this new recipe for cranberry sauce this year and you don’t even have to get up early to watch the parade.

When I went downstairs at nine the next morning to put the turkey in the oven, she was smiling in front of the TV, sipping a cup of black coffee with her dad.