gretagrettagreat - Hello Poetry

When it says it’s going to rain I imagine myself accompanied by lemon ginger tea and Bukowski, The rain sounding of the contradictory company of solitude, a rhythmic and calm tapping, I imagine I am lapping it up off the windowpane like Bukowski might his whiskey. The mist, gray like a cat’s fur, rubs me just as I would the same fur I imagine I am the cat for a moment stretching out my back making a lower case “n” with my body before falling through the carpet to sleep I have to apologize for hating the sun sometimes Too many days of sunlight is too many days of being exposed I think it’s my pores inhaling, letting the small sorrows of the world in the types of things people don’t want to carry around in the sun- change, rattling in a homeless man’s cup unpaid bills, envelopes like mouths an abandoned red jacket in the armpit of a city, blocking the gutter from letting the brown water through to the other side Too many days of sunlight makes me want to unzip my skin and wear it inside out. My ankles sweat I want to hack off my feet. Too many days of sunlight is like the adjective “nice.” So when it says its going to rain, but it doesn’t it’s hard for me to walk and I try to lick water off the windowpane but my tongue can’t reach like a dust particle, it gets stuck in a sun ray rams itself against the glass like a snake’s head against a cage.

0

Apr 7, 2014

Apr 7, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC

When It Says It's Going to Rain, But It Doesn't

When it says it’s going to rain I imagine myself accompanied by lemon ginger tea and Bukowski, The rain sounding of the contradictory company of solitude, a rhythmic and calm tapping, I imagine I am lapping it up off the windowpane like Bukowski might his whiskey. The mist, gray like a cat’s fur, rubs me just as I would the same fur I imagine I am the cat for a moment stretching out my back making a lower case “n” with my body before falling through the carpet to sleep I have to apologize for hating the sun sometimes Too many days of sunlight is too many days of being exposed I think it’s my pores inhaling, letting the small sorrows of the world in the types of things people don’t want to carry around in the sun- change, rattling in a homeless man’s cup unpaid bills, envelopes like mouths an abandoned red jacket in the armpit of a city, blocking the gutter from letting the brown water through to the other side Too many days of sunlight makes me want to unzip my skin and wear it inside out. My ankles sweat I want to hack off my feet. Too many days of sunlight is like the adjective “nice.” So when it says its going to rain, but it doesn’t it’s hard for me to walk and I try to lick water off the windowpane but my tongue can’t reach like a dust particle, it gets stuck in a sun ray rams itself against the glass like a snake’s head against a cage.

35

My childhood bedroom walls are painted bright blue, green, and pink. I regretted the decision less than a year after it was made. They remind me of stale candy, of consumerism in the form of clothing stores for tween girls who forget they’re still children. I am in the eighth grade, it is 2007 and it must be three, four in the morning when you walk in stand in the doorway and stare at me light blue eyes wide open like you saw a dead cat on the doorstep I think about how I’m the only child without blue eyes You are still standing in the doorway unblinking as if the doorway didn’t exist until you were under it. The air is metallic, and as I ask you I taste it want to wash my mouth out, spit as far as I can into the hallway “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Jenae. What’s wrong?? You give me the bad news through silence and your blue eyes that seem to be held open by someone else’s ***** fingers. When people asked how you were doing the following years I wanted to spit metallic at them, too, sometimes the same stuff that clung to the walls that night when you walked from the doorway into my bed blue eyes as wide as a scared mouth at the dentist They forgot that I was still a child and that it took a long time for the word “Rehabilitation Center” to be released from my parents mouths like a stray dog from a cage but the words didn’t crawl around on all fours and bite at our heels like we thought they might you just can’t let them Until then, I wondered where you went for days at a time how you slept for days at a time when you came back why you stared through me and not at me where my camera went, and the neighbor’s cell phone How you became an event rather than a person. The night of my eighth grade graduation, a ceremony that felt exceptionally monumental for little reason, they found you in the car screaming to yourself gripping the steering wheel like a lover’s shoulders during a fight releasing what was never actually yours, but was given to you by the drug the skeleton in its closet that won’t stop shaking its bones made too much noise against the wood panelling Those were the years before I stopped praying I would talk to God like an authority I questioned but obeyed promised I would not make Drew cry again or lie again in exchange for you coming home “Dear God please take all the lies I would make in the future, and build them up into a pyramid or ladder that my sister can walk on that leads to our front door and make sure I can hear the old springs whining as she comes home only this time it won’t be whining, but applause.” Each night you did come home I would lay my face deep into my pillow and thank him give him another lie, because I knew you were alive another night I could breathe and not have to count down the seconds until I would come bursting into the garage and make sure the car wasn’t running and the windows weren’t open and you weren’t sitting in it And you weren’t And I’ve never felt more pride push up through my chest and throat on my mouth when I knew that ladder had been built but you built it yourself I will always feel like a savior for no reason. My photo and essay and drawings are on the wall next to your bed I can’t help but feel like my smile is burning a hole through the back of the wall All I ever did was tell you I loved you All I ever did for you was feel scared shitless that I might wake up without a sister and that I wouldn’t be able to carry that emptiness inside of me All I ever did was pretend I knew what I was doing You called two weeks ago to ask if I had ever heard of some song you heard on the radio I have, I said And you are worried about our little brother He will be fine I said These conversations groan on like a train coming to a stop I check the time, pull the phone away from my ear every so slightly wonder who will take care of your bills when our parents are dead breathe in deeply try to be the person whose face is on your bedroom wall still love you still am so proud it hurts still am so scared it hurts still am pretending still love you still love you.

0

Apr 7, 2014

Apr 7, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC

To My Sister

My childhood bedroom walls are painted bright blue, green, and pink. I regretted the decision less than a year after it was made. They remind me of stale candy, of consumerism in the form of clothing stores for tween girls who forget they’re still children. I am in the eighth grade, it is 2007 and it must be three, four in the morning when you walk in stand in the doorway and stare at me light blue eyes wide open like you saw a dead cat on the doorstep I think about how I’m the only child without blue eyes You are still standing in the doorway unblinking as if the doorway didn’t exist until you were under it. The air is metallic, and as I ask you I taste it want to wash my mouth out, spit as far as I can into the hallway “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Jenae. What’s wrong?? You give me the bad news through silence and your blue eyes that seem to be held open by someone else’s ***** fingers. When people asked how you were doing the following years I wanted to spit metallic at them, too, sometimes the same stuff that clung to the walls that night when you walked from the doorway into my bed blue eyes as wide as a scared mouth at the dentist They forgot that I was still a child and that it took a long time for the word “Rehabilitation Center” to be released from my parents mouths like a stray dog from a cage but the words didn’t crawl around on all fours and bite at our heels like we thought they might you just can’t let them Until then, I wondered where you went for days at a time how you slept for days at a time when you came back why you stared through me and not at me where my camera went, and the neighbor’s cell phone How you became an event rather than a person. The night of my eighth grade graduation, a ceremony that felt exceptionally monumental for little reason, they found you in the car screaming to yourself gripping the steering wheel like a lover’s shoulders during a fight releasing what was never actually yours, but was given to you by the drug the skeleton in its closet that won’t stop shaking its bones made too much noise against the wood panelling Those were the years before I stopped praying I would talk to God like an authority I questioned but obeyed promised I would not make Drew cry again or lie again in exchange for you coming home “Dear God please take all the lies I would make in the future, and build them up into a pyramid or ladder that my sister can walk on that leads to our front door and make sure I can hear the old springs whining as she comes home only this time it won’t be whining, but applause.” Each night you did come home I would lay my face deep into my pillow and thank him give him another lie, because I knew you were alive another night I could breathe and not have to count down the seconds until I would come bursting into the garage and make sure the car wasn’t running and the windows weren’t open and you weren’t sitting in it And you weren’t And I’ve never felt more pride push up through my chest and throat on my mouth when I knew that ladder had been built but you built it yourself I will always feel like a savior for no reason. My photo and essay and drawings are on the wall next to your bed I can’t help but feel like my smile is burning a hole through the back of the wall All I ever did was tell you I loved you All I ever did for you was feel scared shitless that I might wake up without a sister and that I wouldn’t be able to carry that emptiness inside of me All I ever did was pretend I knew what I was doing You called two weeks ago to ask if I had ever heard of some song you heard on the radio I have, I said And you are worried about our little brother He will be fine I said These conversations groan on like a train coming to a stop I check the time, pull the phone away from my ear every so slightly wonder who will take care of your bills when our parents are dead breathe in deeply try to be the person whose face is on your bedroom wall still love you still am so proud it hurts still am so scared it hurts still am pretending still love you still love you.

100

It’s so easy to feel so small I’m on a bus, the last one that runs on a Wednesday night, Sketching a tired face Bags under the eyes, made of black ink I’m eavesdropping on a conversation, (Does it count as eavesdropping when There are only two people speaking in an otherwise Silent bus?) My heart’s been having an existential crisis, And my stomach and chest Empty Yet heavy Someone’s hands are holding my insides And squeezing them in a fist It is exhausting It is lonely In my right ear is this beautiful song Violin and cello and A raw passion that reminds me That it’s okay To be human, and to be scared shitless I’m still listening, partly But not really It’s late I want to sleep Busses are full of zombies- Phone, earphone, unsmiling zombies And despite the Tired sketch on my lap I’m one, too The conversation slows I smile I turn and I recognize the face in front of me I’m told that this person, vaguely familiar face, whose conversation I’ve been eavesdropping on remembers one of my poems About stars And the line is on his wall A line from a poem that I wrote About stars Is on someone’s wall Even better than when Chad Oliver told me I was Quite attractive junior year of high school, And I remember writing that poem And I feel a little less useless I want to cry My body hasn’t known what to do with itself lately You see I exhausted myself in love And now that it’s gone I feel useless My heart pulls towards mediocre sketches First sips of coffee in the morning, Listening to the violin It doesn’t know what else to feel for It’s been left in this dark room Grasping for a table, **** even a stepstool, Heartbreak is exhausting Because it’s not just the heart And it doesn’t really break It just has to re-learn how to feel But I get off the bus And the night is warm, The moon is Beautiful, This white-hot luminescence Burning through the silhouettes of trees, So bright the sky is still blue 6 hours after sundown. I open my palms up to her I see the stars I open my palms up to them They guide me home

0

Feb 20, 2014

Feb 20, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC

Complimenting the Stars

It’s so easy to feel so small I’m on a bus, the last one that runs on a Wednesday night, Sketching a tired face Bags under the eyes, made of black ink I’m eavesdropping on a conversation, (Does it count as eavesdropping when There are only two people speaking in an otherwise Silent bus?) My heart’s been having an existential crisis, And my stomach and chest Empty Yet heavy Someone’s hands are holding my insides And squeezing them in a fist It is exhausting It is lonely In my right ear is this beautiful song Violin and cello and A raw passion that reminds me That it’s okay To be human, and to be scared shitless I’m still listening, partly But not really It’s late I want to sleep Busses are full of zombies- Phone, earphone, unsmiling zombies And despite the Tired sketch on my lap I’m one, too The conversation slows I smile I turn and I recognize the face in front of me I’m told that this person, vaguely familiar face, whose conversation I’ve been eavesdropping on remembers one of my poems About stars And the line is on his wall A line from a poem that I wrote About stars Is on someone’s wall Even better than when Chad Oliver told me I was Quite attractive junior year of high school, And I remember writing that poem And I feel a little less useless I want to cry My body hasn’t known what to do with itself lately You see I exhausted myself in love And now that it’s gone I feel useless My heart pulls towards mediocre sketches First sips of coffee in the morning, Listening to the violin It doesn’t know what else to feel for It’s been left in this dark room Grasping for a table, **** even a stepstool, Heartbreak is exhausting Because it’s not just the heart And it doesn’t really break It just has to re-learn how to feel But I get off the bus And the night is warm, The moon is Beautiful, This white-hot luminescence Burning through the silhouettes of trees, So bright the sky is still blue 6 hours after sundown. I open my palms up to her I see the stars I open my palms up to them They guide me home

71

It is the driest winter we’ve had in years Drier than bones Bones hold things up Like you held me up Until you didn’t It is so dry that my skin aches as it stretches I am starting to hate the sun I curse it every morning and then I feel guilty I need to stop feeling guilty About what I can’t control I need to stop feeling guilty about my heart All we can ever do is try Sometimes it’s enough Sometimes it’s not I’m praying for rain but worried about What’d I’d do if it came Lie in the street and let it soak me But here, It’s illegal to lay on the street naked Either way When it comes I’m going to stay in it for so long there’s no way I’m not getting sick I’ll lie there until they come peel my body up off the pavement Like a wet rag Let me be the wet rag for the world No no, it’s alright, I volunteer myself Let me soak up all of their sorrows because mine aren’t so big Only as big as my body Just now, One man in a café went up to another Said he’d seen his son Sixteen years old, And he looks great. The other said that, “yea, it’s been a whole year He has a check up in six months” But he can’t imagine he’ll come out positive again God It seems like these moments of beauty are placed there Right when we need them No one is separate here We are all alone and together at the same time and sometimes it is so ****** awful And so ****** beautiful It is possible that I can ache For you to come back and fill whatever chasm it was that you left Me with And at the same time Somewhere, (Where is an empty space facing north, or towards the sky or both the space will be more apparent later when the ache fills my chest less When it doesn’t sit inside my stomach like an animal that needs to be fed) You gave me something, too But it doesn’t make it less hard right now The animal is still hungry, Clawing, It will be for a while. Is it possible to hand someone hopefulness and Hopelessness At the same time? To demand them to cradle it in their arms until their Chest absorbs it- Well, you don’t have a choice. The earth is so d r y California, she needs some water Don’t we all

0

Feb 20, 2014

Feb 20, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC

California Winter

It is the driest winter we’ve had in years Drier than bones Bones hold things up Like you held me up Until you didn’t It is so dry that my skin aches as it stretches I am starting to hate the sun I curse it every morning and then I feel guilty I need to stop feeling guilty About what I can’t control I need to stop feeling guilty about my heart All we can ever do is try Sometimes it’s enough Sometimes it’s not I’m praying for rain but worried about What’d I’d do if it came Lie in the street and let it soak me But here, It’s illegal to lay on the street naked Either way When it comes I’m going to stay in it for so long there’s no way I’m not getting sick I’ll lie there until they come peel my body up off the pavement Like a wet rag Let me be the wet rag for the world No no, it’s alright, I volunteer myself Let me soak up all of their sorrows because mine aren’t so big Only as big as my body Just now, One man in a café went up to another Said he’d seen his son Sixteen years old, And he looks great. The other said that, “yea, it’s been a whole year He has a check up in six months” But he can’t imagine he’ll come out positive again God It seems like these moments of beauty are placed there Right when we need them No one is separate here We are all alone and together at the same time and sometimes it is so ****** awful And so ****** beautiful It is possible that I can ache For you to come back and fill whatever chasm it was that you left Me with And at the same time Somewhere, (Where is an empty space facing north, or towards the sky or both the space will be more apparent later when the ache fills my chest less When it doesn’t sit inside my stomach like an animal that needs to be fed) You gave me something, too But it doesn’t make it less hard right now The animal is still hungry, Clawing, It will be for a while. Is it possible to hand someone hopefulness and Hopelessness At the same time? To demand them to cradle it in their arms until their Chest absorbs it- Well, you don’t have a choice. The earth is so d r y California, she needs some water Don’t we all

67

bitter poetry is not worth it let me tell you I could write piles of it but none of it would sound too good my mind is hidden wherever you last touched it I used to think that I wrote the best when I was sad I think now that I don't understand sadness sadness is an animal that doesn't come out in daytime or nighttime sadness is a creature dressed in black an empty chair a half-drank cup of tea a stoplight that never turns green when you’ve been emptied out like an animal that’s been bled for meat and you’re hanging upside down on a rack ready to be devoured you realize- poetry won’t save you my hands are close to touching the floor nearly but they can’t so instead my carcass hangs I leave my body I watch it being adjusted like a coat in a closet swings back and forth, like a child on bars in a playground. I wonder when it will start rotting, how long I have before I’m cured and cooked and sliced into individual cuts wonder whose mouth I’ll be entering whose stomach whose hands will serve me if the blood will run off the plate. if they were happy, would I feel their happiness? if they were sad, would I feel that too? I wonder how it feels to be digested or maybe I won’t make it that far and just be hanging until pieces of me decay, fall to the floor like dropped pennies from pockets until I’m eaten away by time and an empty room i’m not a bloodless animal hanging on a rack dead animals hanging on racks can’t write poetry of course but, if they could it wouldn’t be worth it, either no, it wouldn’t do them much good

0

Feb 17, 2014

Feb 17, 2014 at 8:10 PM UTC

dead animals hanging on a rack

bitter poetry is not worth it let me tell you I could write piles of it but none of it would sound too good my mind is hidden wherever you last touched it I used to think that I wrote the best when I was sad I think now that I don't understand sadness sadness is an animal that doesn't come out in daytime or nighttime sadness is a creature dressed in black an empty chair a half-drank cup of tea a stoplight that never turns green when you’ve been emptied out like an animal that’s been bled for meat and you’re hanging upside down on a rack ready to be devoured you realize- poetry won’t save you my hands are close to touching the floor nearly but they can’t so instead my carcass hangs I leave my body I watch it being adjusted like a coat in a closet swings back and forth, like a child on bars in a playground. I wonder when it will start rotting, how long I have before I’m cured and cooked and sliced into individual cuts wonder whose mouth I’ll be entering whose stomach whose hands will serve me if the blood will run off the plate. if they were happy, would I feel their happiness? if they were sad, would I feel that too? I wonder how it feels to be digested or maybe I won’t make it that far and just be hanging until pieces of me decay, fall to the floor like dropped pennies from pockets until I’m eaten away by time and an empty room i’m not a bloodless animal hanging on a rack dead animals hanging on racks can’t write poetry of course but, if they could it wouldn’t be worth it, either no, it wouldn’t do them much good

63

My scars show some type of Calculated insanity, An organized sadness That has the potential to eat At the flesh of my thoughts. My scars show some type of Undefined insecurity, Repetition proves this Like science- is that all we are? My scars do not own me though, they speak of adolescence, and the unbearable hollowness that aches, a dull knife: “The human condition” Are we not so hopeless? My bones cry out in objection I should think not, they say No, my scars do not own me, they exist as a part of a whole, made of bones and tissue and something else- striving to be heard among the clamor of waking each morning Something that rumbles deep and is heard and listens when the rain kisses my forearm- each glorious drop is a bell ringing deliverance

0

Oct 22, 2013

Oct 22, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC

Raindrops on Self-Inflicted Scars

My scars show some type of Calculated insanity, An organized sadness That has the potential to eat At the flesh of my thoughts. My scars show some type of Undefined insecurity, Repetition proves this Like science- is that all we are? My scars do not own me though, they speak of adolescence, and the unbearable hollowness that aches, a dull knife: “The human condition” Are we not so hopeless? My bones cry out in objection I should think not, they say No, my scars do not own me, they exist as a part of a whole, made of bones and tissue and something else- striving to be heard among the clamor of waking each morning Something that rumbles deep and is heard and listens when the rain kisses my forearm- each glorious drop is a bell ringing deliverance

28

I have not often felt so Acutely alone As when sitting behind you on a bus Knowing you have seen me, And I have seen you And neither says a thing. The bus grows crowded and the opportunity, If there was one to begin with, Is lost amidst conversations and body heat. I am left staring at the thick curly hair on the back of your head Like a math equation. Part of me wants to reach out and hit you, hard. I know I won’t get an answer unless I ask, But I sit quietly and stare Wondering if you can feel it, too Yes, Loneliness is a form of selfishness I know this yet am unsure of how to combat it It is in places like this Crowded busses Packed with chattering, Congested sidewalks that are an obstacle course of Averted eye contact, whether you recognize anyone or not Because Heaven forbid we start a conversation with a stranger- No We have places to be. “Alone” itself is a contradiction “Alone” is someone sitting in the same room pointing out their blatant disregard of you To be “Lonely” is to have a long, Drawn out conversation With yourself

0

Oct 22, 2013

Oct 22, 2013 at 12:06 AM UTC

On the Bus; Loneliness

I have not often felt so Acutely alone As when sitting behind you on a bus Knowing you have seen me, And I have seen you And neither says a thing. The bus grows crowded and the opportunity, If there was one to begin with, Is lost amidst conversations and body heat. I am left staring at the thick curly hair on the back of your head Like a math equation. Part of me wants to reach out and hit you, hard. I know I won’t get an answer unless I ask, But I sit quietly and stare Wondering if you can feel it, too Yes, Loneliness is a form of selfishness I know this yet am unsure of how to combat it It is in places like this Crowded busses Packed with chattering, Congested sidewalks that are an obstacle course of Averted eye contact, whether you recognize anyone or not Because Heaven forbid we start a conversation with a stranger- No We have places to be. “Alone” itself is a contradiction “Alone” is someone sitting in the same room pointing out their blatant disregard of you To be “Lonely” is to have a long, Drawn out conversation With yourself

35

Too many people have forgotten how to dance Their bodies have become stiff with Everyday life They are checking their watch and carrying their briefcases even when they are not You can see the worry in their bones They move the most in their sleep, when their bodies fight themselves - angrily restless at night because they are locked up during the day Their arms are more like pipes than wings Their legs are simply part of the machine that allows them to count Their faces are clocks Their hands are levers And their hearts? - Buried - somewhere beneath the flesh that has become less than flesh, the muscle that is less than muscle, the bone that is less than bone and The blood that has become simply something to pump - Something to keep from drying out completely. I heard a harmonica the other day- My body heard it before my ears did My arms listened so closely- my hips and my knees followed and the Air stepped aside for my body creating a tunnel of space without space for my limbs only The grass below my feet was my stage and the earth and I were no longer separate When I left, A stranger told me “You’re a great dancer” I should have told him “So is everyone else- You just have to let your fingertips to reach for the notes as they hear them You just have to train your heart to understand more than lists- They don’t matter now – They didn’t ever If there is a God, I don’t think his intention in creating bodies was for them to worry Perhaps our fingers weren’t made to always be holding something Perhaps our eyes are in the front of our head for a reason And perhaps our hearts are inside of our chest because who know what would happen if we Let them out

0

Oct 20, 2013

Oct 20, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC

On Forgetting How to Dance

Too many people have forgotten how to dance Their bodies have become stiff with Everyday life They are checking their watch and carrying their briefcases even when they are not You can see the worry in their bones They move the most in their sleep, when their bodies fight themselves - angrily restless at night because they are locked up during the day Their arms are more like pipes than wings Their legs are simply part of the machine that allows them to count Their faces are clocks Their hands are levers And their hearts? - Buried - somewhere beneath the flesh that has become less than flesh, the muscle that is less than muscle, the bone that is less than bone and The blood that has become simply something to pump - Something to keep from drying out completely. I heard a harmonica the other day- My body heard it before my ears did My arms listened so closely- my hips and my knees followed and the Air stepped aside for my body creating a tunnel of space without space for my limbs only The grass below my feet was my stage and the earth and I were no longer separate When I left, A stranger told me “You’re a great dancer” I should have told him “So is everyone else- You just have to let your fingertips to reach for the notes as they hear them You just have to train your heart to understand more than lists- They don’t matter now – They didn’t ever If there is a God, I don’t think his intention in creating bodies was for them to worry Perhaps our fingers weren’t made to always be holding something Perhaps our eyes are in the front of our head for a reason And perhaps our hearts are inside of our chest because who know what would happen if we Let them out

38

If you left me anywhere, I’d rather it be the mountains- There with the wildflowers and dirt and running water- There with the trees. The trees that are my brothers and sisters, and father and mother When I am near them, I inhale knowing breathing is more than it is, I know I am close to home The trees that spoke to me by swaying, Threatening to fall but instead They raised me Those same trees taught me how to breathe and how to love, They re-teach me each time I forget. They open their palms to me, show me the value of this fragmented moment- I do my best to get lost in them when I can. When my heart hurts, They surround me They remind me that no ache is so great as the immensity of their trunks, No worry as significant as the weight of their branches, No earthly pain could ever amount to the detail found in just one of their leaves- A beautiful, browning pine needle, Fallen to the drying forest floor.

0

Oct 20, 2013

Oct 20, 2013 at 8:59 PM UTC

I'd Rather It Be the Mountains

If you left me anywhere, I’d rather it be the mountains- There with the wildflowers and dirt and running water- There with the trees. The trees that are my brothers and sisters, and father and mother When I am near them, I inhale knowing breathing is more than it is, I know I am close to home The trees that spoke to me by swaying, Threatening to fall but instead They raised me Those same trees taught me how to breathe and how to love, They re-teach me each time I forget. They open their palms to me, show me the value of this fragmented moment- I do my best to get lost in them when I can. When my heart hurts, They surround me They remind me that no ache is so great as the immensity of their trunks, No worry as significant as the weight of their branches, No earthly pain could ever amount to the detail found in just one of their leaves- A beautiful, browning pine needle, Fallen to the drying forest floor.

21

We used to have contests to see who could make the best nests in each other’s hair. Naturally, your nests were award winning- We’d emerge from bed, spent and re-born And in the mirror, an applauding crowd of spectators stood standing along our satisfied, flushed reflections. Those nests would take eons to untangle- Partly, because honestly –they were ridiculous. How in the hell did you move so fast as to sculpt worlds from strings on my scalp? Partly, because they were funny, and it is a small, rare delight to look in a mirror and know the smile across is actually two, But mostly because, truly- I was quite fond of the fingers that made them- Ungraceful, to be sure But some of the best imperfections I’ve known.

0

Oct 20, 2013

Oct 20, 2013 at 8:58 PM UTC

Nests

We used to have contests to see who could make the best nests in each other’s hair. Naturally, your nests were award winning- We’d emerge from bed, spent and re-born And in the mirror, an applauding crowd of spectators stood standing along our satisfied, flushed reflections. Those nests would take eons to untangle- Partly, because honestly –they were ridiculous. How in the hell did you move so fast as to sculpt worlds from strings on my scalp? Partly, because they were funny, and it is a small, rare delight to look in a mirror and know the smile across is actually two, But mostly because, truly- I was quite fond of the fingers that made them- Ungraceful, to be sure But some of the best imperfections I’ve known.

11