I left you suspended in the air
as a single thought expelled
from a Southwest flight back from Oregon
Everything is suspended in the air –
the New York woman rushing through her beef sandwich to my left
the woman at the window seat writing
love letters to the woman who will pick her up at the airport
and the way I imagined landing on the same runway as you
back home, realizing sometimes
turbulence remains even after landing
realizing there is a reason we had the same destination
but flew at different times. So much so that
the New York woman next to me could be you
and I her beef sandwich – chewed quietly, regrettably
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
of tossing the chevron throw pillow
from my bed to the floor
even on nights I’m sleeping alone
I stretch across the entire Queen size mattress
press my body against the cool white of my other pillow
pretending it could be some body, your body
perhaps, sometimes finding myself
thankful that it is not. In my mind
we have already dated –
showered together, read books, cooked dinner.
I’ve eaten macaroons with your mother
taught your sister how to knit.
In my mind I’ve already imagined
you let my dogs leash drag on the ground,
I get jealous of your best friend,
you think Bukowski was a feminist.
We’ve broken up, blocked each other’s numbers.
I already made a spotify playlist of heart break,
have already tired of the songs.
So when you come after midnight,
and toss my throw pillow to make room for yourself on the bed
I already know where it will land on the floor beneath my window.
I’ve already practiced picking it up
to place it back on the bed in the morning.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 10:20 PM UTC
I came into the world early
spitting, screaming, clinging
already growing hair from
a blush colored birthmark on my scalp
my hair grows and I do too.
Outside I scrape my knee and
**** the blood from it, hoping
that will take the hurt away
I find the hurt years later
in front of a bar where a
handsome demon is offering
a whiskey, promising beauty and goodness
if I only drink his blood. Wait.
I've been here before. This is
my mother's dream. She drops
her spatula at the stove
when I tell her of it
in waking hours. *Did you drink
it this time? Did you drink it?*
She begs.
Yes mother - I drank his blood
then I came here and
went to bed.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 1:13 PM UTC
The night exhales
loud, ***** coated breath and
on an inhale pulls me like
the tug of a cigarette filter
through flashing neons
pressed against a navy blue
ceiling
floor
wall and
button up shirt
of a Welsh boy
named Adam, who offers
a rib disguised as a dance and
out on Wind Street I stumble
the Eve of Swansea
with my American accent
the apple already tucked in my throat
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 1:10 PM UTC
You may think I don't remember
what my soul knows of
your coming and leaving, of
our hurting and forgiving
so that when I walk along
what might have been our place
in some distant life,
I shake hands with the hills,
offer a tired hug to the shore
and they know me and kiss my heels.
They ask me where you are, and
forgive me for admitting
you won't let me know
They tell me to go home
and love you anyway
which is what I do
content with my morning coffee
alone.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 1:06 PM UTC
beneath a small robin blue club house
with a deck leading to a robin blue slide
and a wooden beam holding
three swings - that held
both of us, a baby doll
and many innocent summers
Now, the sandbox lid is left off,
its insides sacrificed to rain, the
club house adopted by wasps
the metal of the swings has rusted
the baby doll eternally tied to one
and the robin blue slide now
sun bleached in some spots
and cloaked with moss in others
is the only place
our adult bodies still fit
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 1:03 PM UTC
A door slams next door
and I hear my neighbor crying
I do not know her name
only the sound of her grief as it seeps through our walls
We are the only ones home
alone in our separate houses
so to save her shame
I decide to take a walk
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 12:54 PM UTC
my dog stops to mark
each abandoned Christmas tree
that has found its grave
on the sidewalk of Keswick Road
Tonight I am walking in boots with laces
instead of a Velcro post-surgery shoe
Each step echoes an ache
that cannot ever fully heal
Half of the porches in Baltimore
are adorned with holiday lights
others with pumpkins, forgotten
The fruit bowl in my kitchen still holds
fruit given months ago by a sympathetic neighbor
Some spots on the apples from Ari
are finally becoming
soft and brown – I eat around the rot
My torso and arms are strewn
with black and blue kisses,
the result of weeks on crutches
My bruised ribs confess:
the real hurt was under here
Tonight I am walking
with a swollen foot, a swollen heart
but no longer broken
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:07 PM UTC
Three years ago
I was given
my first cactus plant
I named her Esperanza
Today I threw her away
in the kitchen trashcan –
the things we love don’t always get a funeral
when they rot
when we overwater, over love
accidentally
I keep her red ***
on the windowsill
empty
the garbage and walk it to the street
thinking of her green thorny throat
turning yellow and soft
when I still thought
exposure to the sun would heal her
Through a window I see
a dim living room, brown couch, teal walls
I imagine it is our couch
we must be doing dishes
after dinner – your hands
on my waist, I always forget
to take my rings off
until I have already started
scrubbing the plates
I take away your hands
leave on the rings
let the plates air dry
Let Esperanza grow
black spots and mold
and worry only about
the next plant
her red *** will hold
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
It is Thursday
when you go to the store
declaring your identity in the world again
You have always been hungry
now your stomach is too
The store is flooded
with white light, except the produce section
which has dim yellow lights
wood floors and black tables
where you squeeze each pear
*Remember that Sunday
your bed was an island
you thought about
calling out from work,
thought about the boy
next to you, still holding
your hand while he was sleeping*
The green pears
only come in organic
cost a little more and
probably taste the same as
*Two weeks later he picks you up
to wander around that big apple like worms
drinking coffee and talking about
how useless is the penny
how you both never need change*
The brown pears
that are much cheaper
because they aren’t as bright
but they must be just as juicy as
*Drinking ***** infused with mint and cherry
in the theatre parking lot – you
complain about missing the previews
laugh about how you would have
kissed through them anyway*
Canned pears
that never rot
floating in their tin coffin
with their skin already peeled
*You take down every photo
t-shirt, sticker, love-letter
but not the driftwood
he found and gave to you
during that first walk together*
You don’t pick the green, brown, or
canned – deciding you want
any other fruit
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC