There was a time when I would run to your door so wholeheartedly with sincerity as my bread offering along side a red wine full of my clearest intention to simply see you smile and be more confident in your own beauty

I would melt  like a small chubby stick of butter and feel like perhaps in those chairs we sat we all melted and became yellow viscosity –inseparable

There was a time when I foolishly saw my mothers eyes in you, her broken unhealthy relationship cloaked the room perphaps more present than the music-even you were clocked with it. In my mind, If you were my mother leaving my father, I would be the lover who showed up with open arms to offer a new safe shoulder

What heavy cloak that was. What an illusion. How I thought perhaps life was calling to stand for my love regardless of what others thought. This heavy cloak came off the day that love did not stand for up for me.

this cloak was so thick so heavy and when it came off and I could see by the non stop crying  and rapid way in which my eyes reddened around the lids and pupils
that I was wrong

that I was a truly alone in a place so far
But still my life in MY hands

I have tired to release too many times
but it’s like a spiral winding inwardly

and I accept it’s traversing and infinite nature always coiling and surprising me

at how it is still there

I just needed
solitude to move my aching willowed heart
to drop another seed just outside the periphery of my shade

Where a newer dream would have enough sunlight to flourish
and  burst as a sprout through
the  darkness of rich moist tears and acidic soil to became a sapling growing

The blue sky and scent of cosmos flowers are crispy
like the brown leaves that begin inaugurating autumn

I see lines of periodic motion caved
by the birds dancing overhead

When they look at us , those birds, do they notice our lines- our traversed geography made  obvious by our commutes

Does one of them know the shape of the line your steps make ?

I compose poetry on the subway
on my phone

People think I am texting

I think they are texting
Maybe they are writing poetry, too

Abrupt is the formicidae’s descend
into plummeting disapproval

this brisk ant mountaineering
over the hot terrain of my left foot

Is  not brushed off by my partner hand but my his fear of  a “crawly thing”

…
I tell him of my childhood-
alone in the garden with the animals - my mother in our home depressed- the plants and the insects were my friends.

I used to play with ants.
…

“ a life is a life no matter how small” i read in one of Dr. Seuss’ books. I would look at myself in the mirror– a worn out pink stool below my small eight year old feet. I was  in the third grade, but I couldn’t sit with my bottom on the chairs. If I did only my eyes and forehead would rest above the table. I so I began to sit over my knees and propel myself forward when I needed to grab my rolling pencil. Small hands reaching forward.

…
What is it about small things that makes someone try to dominate them to try and tell them where their place should be. When I saw the ants so steadfast move through their course I started to tear.
…
I realize now why, why I couldn’t let him step on the ant after brushing it off. Why I take take insect out of my office or my home in Tupperware.  

My life, their life  and our lives are  miraculous even if they are brief, even if from above we seem like those ants  scattered over green and brown splotches of earth; our cars lined on an overpass mimicking their lines.

(there is not such things as a small life)

**** cool