I've heard the creak of the stairs
as she passes over them
for the eleventh time today,
laundry basket wrapped around her hip,
its soft plastic shape
molded to the curve of her
from the number of times she's held it close.
I've heard the silence of a muted television
when he lets the flatscreen lives pass by
as my sister starts in on another story,
laughing about children he will never meet
and looking into her
to remember how much of him she is.
I've heard the warmth of two voices joined into one
from the telephone pressed closely to my ear
both of them sitting in separate rooms,
a different receiver in each of their hands,
as if our living room is the size of this whole country
and the arm chairs in it are rooms
in which we each sit,
the phones walkie-talkies we've made
a part of this game
of pretending that we are all together,
conversing across the fireplace
of New England autumn and
the blue carpet of Lake Erie.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 11:28 PM UTC
I was born on the shore of Lake Erie
Seven pounds in nature's hands
My mother told me never to be caught
With more than I could hold in my two arms
I was gone in the wind
The second I was old enough to walk
I made crowns out of flowers
And dug down to the earth's fire core
I run along the lands
That open up my heart to more
And I change again
Into the iron horse
I can't believe
That they'd cut down all the trees
But they never did belong to me
They never did belong to me
I came after they left the scene
To count the rings of age
Alone for the first time
It was only the trees that ever knew my name
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 1:14 PM UTC
She told me 'no.'
Stick stuck between two fingers,
Lips pursed, exhaling smoke
My words traced their way up the arms of trees,
Watching, while you stared through me
Leaves breathing waste from our open mouths
Smoke & carbon changed then spit right back out
And the trees wore my words like war medals,
Won from all the years withstanding the wind
While the birds deserted their posts,
The branches held strong, steadfast with hope.
I touched the rubber toe of my canvas shoe
Just across the crack in the sidewalk
Cement slabs heavy with the weight
Of all those who'd walked upon them
And we were smaller, then, beneath that moon
I was smaller beneath your gaze
When your two eyes finally slid into focus
Orbs themselves, and me the man in both moons,
My face reflected in each one
You moved your left foot
Above a fallen twig
You leaned down,
And SNAP!
A harsh crack
You smiled and I did my best to smile back.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 3:09 AM UTC
Handsome come and handsome go
Still when I speak your name, I feel the cold
Distance left me years ago
A far-off dream that we spoke
Well hush, dear child, and let them go
When god said yes, I said no
But he always has the last word
Yes, he always has the last word
Who is this man beneath the cloak?
A cloud of smoke, a not-so-holy ghost
He suit them up then let them go
Brought his hand down fast then slow
I fell down the well of complacency
A smile and a nod, nothing more to me
But now I break my back beneath this weight
Your body's gone, but your spirit stays
It haunts me when I speak your name
You made him a ghost to me
And now it's your name I speak
When asked what I believe
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 12:57 AM UTC
He broke into my house, stole the portrait off the mantelpiece
He signed his name at the bottom of every page in my diary,
And he slept in my bed.
He left the back gate open and emptied all the picture frames
Now they are just as blank as the faces they once held.
I left him a letter on the kitchen table,
Where we sat together in silence
Where we fed the fire burning all around us
But still, we sat there,
Untouched.
I grew my hair out to hide my eyes,
The only place the darkness could be seen
It lives inside me.
Now we live inside the burnt-down ruins
Of a house that once stood so tall,
A house that knew our names
A house that was once a home.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC