Tight rope walking
is an art that my man
has perfected.
He sweats only inside
as he risks the fall
in bringing my morning coffee.
No net.
Still he smiles as though
this particular rope
is a lifeline.
A tether?

He could never be
The Boy With The Hair.
No;
My Man Is No Boy.
He dares greatly
clutching a quivering
cup of lifeblood.  
One foot placed carefully
In front of the other
50 feet above
the DMZ each morning
Into enemy territory.
Into me.

The bravest Man I’ve known
is a performer in a circus
where the perks are
landmines
languish
and breakfast with
The Bearded Lady.

Once upon a time
I bought a house from a guy
that looks a lot like you
-the type with an honest face.

To be fair I wasn't a hard sell.

He never had to ask me to ignore
the leaking sink,
or the door you had to shut
a little too hard.

I never needed sold
on the messy neglected interior.

I was hungry
for a home

An easy commission check.

I never asked about the interest rate,
or the property taxes,
or what it would cost to insure the place.

No thought whatsoever
about the blood, sweat, and tears
it would cost
Each Month
to pay the mortgage.  

Just to keep it.
Just to stay.

My brow,
and eyes
and cheeks,
raw from the salt they'd come to know.

A bad investment.
Bad negotiations.

I took the long way home.
I'm so glad I made it though.
Thank you.

I can never unremember discovering how much we both loved 3eb
that day in your bed at the yellow house.
Maybe that’s when I should have known
that I could never have you.
You knew that before I did.
I'm the one that's
Stupid.
And there’s still this
BURNING.
Like there’s always been?
I’ve always felt so alone.
I’m not sure that I’ve ever felt
Alive.

Do better!
Be better!
Want me!
I screamed into the void of my thoughts.
I wasn’t sure who I was screaming at
but I had at least a few people in mind.

The reality is:
it could have been anyone.
No one had ever been enough.

I had always believed that I had not been enough for anyone.

The trouble it seems:
He was right.

No one had been enough for me.

Maybe I was my intended audience.
****.

It’s the t-shirts on parade
and imagining that the new girl feels bad for me.
It’s that the new girl isn’t the new girl
but that she is the girl.
It’s that I wasn’t ever actually the girl
and she will never know the significance of each shirt.
It’s the feeling that I will only ever be a footnote
in the partners I’ve shared.
The feeling that I won’t ever be the headliner
only the one that came before or after.
I've got great taste in t-shirts though.

I love you and I used to could talk about it
But now it feels like manual labor
forming orders inside my mouth.
I want to say “when did it all come to be so hard?”
But it has always been this way, hasn’t it?
reasons Reasons REASONS
For bizarrely monogamous reasons
it has always been hard to talk about the way
I love you.
We were married and that was
reasons.
And then we were married but IN LOVE and that was
Reasons.
Then we were divorcing and HURTING and that was
REASONS.
And now we are friends and have all new
ReAsOnS

“Emotionally Impregnated”
was the phrase that came to mind
when I tried to make sense
of what had happened to me
half way through listening to
the song he had sent

“You know you gave me all the time
Oh, did I give enough of mine?”

It was the unchangeable joining
of thought and feeling that produced
within me a growing emotional experience
that no more asked permission to be
than did any other seed and egg.

“Say you don’t know me anymore
But that’s a bullet on your floor”

I have never been a reliable narrator though
how many negative tests have I produced
even amid ******* that imagined they were swollen
nausea that persisted for days
and blood that stained sheets much later than expected?

Had I just spent the last two years
in an elaborate emotional pregnancy scare?
Had the joining of lyrics
of hungry bodies
of insatiable hearts
produced within me an embryo of empty hope?

Have I sabotaged my own lifeblood
in a desire to force from my womb
some monstrous and malformed product
of what had been lifegiving friendship?

He sleeps while I lay awake
No news.
I think this is the nature
of boys.
How many times have I lain awake
while a boy I was ******* slept?
Sometimes when you are faced with absurdity
All you can do is sleep.
I think I've made a terrible mistake
but this isn't the first time I've felt
this way.
I am not to be trusted.

I don't think I've slept in nearly two years.
Instead closing my eyes only in the merciful combination of desperation and design.

Last night he went to sleep at 12:03
I listened for his breaths to slow.
I rubbed my feet together
softly;
In near panic.
And didn't turn on Josh Ritter until
12:33.

Aside:
Falling in love =/= being in love
Life is all about lessons. Choices.

🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶
I never felt alone until I met you.
🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶

Not alone like this.

Do you dwell in this space also?
Am I less alone in at least that much?

Sleep softly, babes.

I heard a song today that I know
I am not better for having heard.

*******, Steve Forbert and
******* for
 
                       "But everything burned
                         And fell from my hand
                         I had to turn back
                         Or build a new plan"

My life was better before this affirmation
of the universal human experience
of whole entire worlds burned
to less than ashes
in those moments of clarity.

                          "Meet me in the middle of the day
                            Let me hear you say everything's okay
                            Meet me in the middle of the night
                            Let me hear you say everything's alright"

We could have stopped at
"Romeo's Tune"
and danced forever
in the kitchen of my heart.

That might have been
the nostalgic space you occupied
but you weren't ever happy
until you had force ****** me:
                          "You're thinking you've found
                            The one special place
                            Where all your dreams
                            Will walk out in line
                            And follow the course
                            You've made in your mind
                             It isn't gonna be that way"

1978-2020
More than forty years apart
the same soul sick hurting!

Can you feel it now
when the sun warms your skin?
Does your heart sing love songs as before?
Did it feel like betrayal when you
rejoined everyone who had been waiting?

I need so much to believe
you are ok now Steve Forbert.

Words are wind
is a thing you used to love to say
when I would start "defending"
him
"Words are wind, Mandi!
Anyone can give you words!"
You would leave the air silent
only then with your own.
The space between us entirely empty of you.
This was not the vacuum of last spring.
There would be no side of highway hand plucked wildflowers.
No phones vibrating with your messages between thighs in sessions.
No intertwined sweat soaked limbs in the sauna of a midday tent.
I was thankful of it.
I longed for your nearness but not your misplaced romance or hope.
No -I would have you now in the Autumn.
Too depressed to breathe;
you would never draw me close.
Your words only came with
alcohol, ***, or some combination of
supposed truth serums.
As you had said though:
"Words are wind, Mandi!"
And your words somehow both too abundant and too few
blew through that space between us
like a winter's Gale.
Seeking shelter from the elements you created
meant leaving you to find your own  way through.
The only way out for either of us.

It is nearly spring again now.
I know it must be because
I can see primrose
defying all logic with it's
near invisible courage.
I champion it on with its
welcomed heralding of a needed
new season.

I hope that we both get to be
Ok.

Australia is on fire
and I imagine that I can smell
the burning fur and flesh of
animals I can’t even name.

I’m full of ****.

The truth of me is that
bushfires a world away
are not the reason
I haven’t been dry
a day since Christmas.

No
The World’s Problems
do not keep me awake.

Syrian children with melted skin
won’t ever feel as real as
knowing I have not looked -really looked
into the eyes of my own in months.

The m&m’s the Vraylar drug rep brought are real though
they are as real as the number on the scale.

Which is at least as real as my boss
when she used the words “corrective action.”

Which was at least as real as my ex-husband
who is back to the job of propping up his half of my life.

Which is at least as real as The Boy who is a friend turned stranger
who wrote the poem I stole those words from.

It’s turtles all the way down.

The shallow words you offer now
will never begin
to fill the deep chasms
you've eroded into me.
Me.
My person.
Into the heart, soul, bones, brain, sinew of
Me.
When we were still new
you had already begun
to chip away at
Me.
But you said
with each raise of your maul
“I love you
and I would never
do anything to hurt
you.”
No one
but NO ONE
had ever loved
Me.
before.
I opened myself wide
and you crawled inside
to make yourself a home in
Me.
I was empty before then
and still I am empty.
According to Bukowski
I should have let you ****
Me.

In the moments before death my brain had flooded with DMT  
And I could see in my mind’s eye all of the best that had been between us.
From somewhere above my body I silently screamed that the DNR was a mistake
I was comforted then in knowing that you would soon follow me into the dark
-a willing victim of our shared cancer.
I had seen your hospice nurses and heard your death rattles for years.
Even still I longed so much for you to grab the paddles and force me back
but we had agreed not to resuscitate;
so paralyzed I watched my life leave.

It was first with a whimper and then with sobs
that I grasped wildly around the small pitch box
in search of you who had promised to die with me.
I found instead more darkness, the smell of dirt
and that not even the ghost of you had come to lay.

I can sometimes hear you eulogize my goodness from above
when you come to pick the flowers I’m growing with what is left of me.
I won’t reach for you anymore as I did last night.
I will lie very still.
Without a whimper.

My body is a rugged mountain pass
whose dangerous peaks and valleys
call out to the hubris of would be adventurers
with its hungry siren song.

Lovers have come the world over
with their maps, pickaxes, fire starters and rope.
Some brought tents intending to go the distance;
several with flags to stake their claim at the summit;
a few with pocket knives for carving their names.
All leaving trash on the trails as they went.

“Did I make you ***?”
they would ask believing in their foolish arrogance
that their movement and noise were really capable
of causing my avalanche.
Covered in the sweat of my labors in Sherpa-ing them to the peak
I whisper “Yes.”
Understanding in those moments that some things cannot be taught.

Only one ever came truly naked -without intention or ego.
The many times he found himself cresting my summit
it never occurred to him to pierce me with his pride
but instead he kissed the earth beneath him in gratitude.
He always moved through me as if he had gone this way his whole life
and yet still could get lost on the trails of a single limb.

He made himself an eager student of my skin
and produced waterfalls where before there had been none.
Singing songs into me as he studied my topography with adept fingers.
The echoes of which ring through me even now.
Never was he concerned with the ridges
for he being too preoccupied with the beauty of my slopes
thought of them only as trail markers.

The songbirds in the trees of me call always for him.
The animals of my wilds stay hungry as never before.
A small fire burns constantly for his return.

Unclothed.

I sit watching brown eyes
probe affectionately through the haze
at the mirrors created by close family.
I think the intimacy that is made possible
by the sharing of wine, **** and space
in a dim room full of sad love and smoke
will never ceased to amaze me.
The men see themselves in each other
and are both heartened in their own ways
I am drunk now in my way
and The Mirror is ****** in his
and Brown (Green) Eyes is both at once
Appalachian mouths move in turns
to take a hit or a drink or a shot at wisdom
Suddenly the truth of our three souls is laid bare
on the tiny table there between us.
My heart tightens around the words
as they echo through each chamber
growing louder with each reverberation.
“Happiness is being able to breathe”

Love you, Frank.

We were both writers.
You with a fountain pen and moleskin notebook  
I with anything I could scrawl on -tears always just at the edges of me
and in this way we began to author our life together.
We put pen to paper that first night
drunk on gas station liquor and on not feeling so alone.
Our hungry bodies filled page after page
with what I would come to believe
would be my magnum opus.

In your wedding vows you said that we would
“work together to fill the pages with
conflict, desire, pain and all that makes life real
so that we can appreciate all that makes life good”
You were not much of a co-author though
preferring instead to write alone at night while I slept
How many times did I revisit a previous chapter
only to find that you had introduced a new character
or a dark and bizarre plot twist without my knowledge?
Eventually these discoveries would become as predictable
as the indignant denials
eventual apologies
and promises that would always follow them

lather, rinse, repeat

Over years these edits and additions
would knock the air from my lungs
completely shaking my confidence as a writer.
With cramping hands I would try to rewrite the bad parts
though my scribble marks did little to mask the words beneath.
Words that once had flowed as easily and copiously as I had for you
now came only in fits and starts
each new chapter torn from the bones of my bones.
How many times did the ten eyes we wrote in
watch as writers block turned to writers rage
producing furious missives that would tear holes in pages without warning?
Still even as my teeth-torn hands turned arthritic
I couldn’t seem to just put down the ******* pen
Because it was our story
and because I loved it
and because I loved us
and because I loved you.

I ended our story with a semicolon
Its already faded form staring up from my ring finger
a reminder that I could have chosen to end my story but didn’t.
You once told me that a good author always employs irony
and I have always been a better writer than you’ve given me credit

                                                   ;

There once was a tiny bundle of cells that grew in my womb
without the assistance of fertility medications or ovulation testing
a surprise spontaneous occurrence of the first sparks of Life
a product of the kind of ******* that happens on a honeymoon
between newlyweds full of bliss, lust, and hope

My womb once thought uninhabitable to such an occurrence
boarded a plane home five days later
cradling this new truth-
The Honeymoon Baby

Weeks would pass before my womb would begin to betray its secret
3 days late- nothing
5 days late- nothing
8 days late- the little blue plus sign and a whisper from deep in me-
“You aren’t broken?”

For several hours my womb and I jealously guarded this knowledge
My new husband not known for his enthusiasm wouldn’t share in my joy
So I sat alone feeding my hungry heart on now debunked beliefs
“You AREN’T broken!”

Having gorged myself to the point of bursting on a meal years in the making
I looked with wet eyes to my then partner of more than half a decade
“we made a honeymoon baby; I’m not broken.”
No, he wouldn’t share my joy.

His eyes turned to windows in the days that would follow
They screamed their disgust into the wide open parts of me
as pointedly and with as much passion as his mouth could ever muster
It was then that I began to silently pray the baby away

My silence only increased his vitriol until with a blast he climaxed in his rage
and I felt the cold of the recently adorned wedding band against my neck
as the hands which had held mine so softly so often pinned me to the door
Finally my silent prayers gave way to a singular scream
“I ******* hate you and I hate your child inside of me!”

My womb cried to hear the prayer spoken
She cried so long and so loud that she began to bleed
She heaved and sobbed her rage into rivers of blood that wouldn’t stop for weeks
and earthquakes of cramps that would rock me to my core
The unstoppable current of tears and blood carried the translucent sac
that housed the had been Honeymoon Baby into the ***** porcelain bowl
The baby I prayed away that would never speak whispered up
“You are broken.”

The honeymoon was over.
I hadn’t hated him before that.
Six years later to the day we signed divorce papers.

Sleepy Sounds-
cacophony of the
shared studio apartment
An island of misfit
toys
Some straight from
the factory with
missing parts
Some with
limbs lost over
time
All wandered/fled/abandoned
here
neglected/broken/discarded
Five sets of
eyes
finally closed to
imperfection/rejection/expectation
All found now
in this place
Whole

I’ve heard it said that love
is friendship caught fire
And while I have often
warmed by bones amid your glow
You have never burned me

Even as coals from our tiny campfire
flung sparks into the air
that would disappear
before touching the ground
or our too near tent
You never burned me

No, I think instead
Love is friendship
which has produced fire

Words matter

Catching fire lends itself
to images of burning buildings
of holes in walls
and little boys falling asleep
cradled in a parents warm embrace
but waking up alone
abandoned
scared.

scary
catching fires are scary.

Produced fires are intentional
they are tended and protected
secured against the elements
boundaries placed around
to enjoy the benefits of the product
while limiting the potential harms inherent to
fire
love

The fire produced by our friendship
has warmed our children
has given them light to learn by
and best
a beacon home

Precious needs met
after years in the nuclear winter
that came after the flash and burn
of friendships CAUGHT fire

Victims of traumatic house fires though
rarely go on to become pyromaniacs
Hearts -both big and small
stamped forever with a warning label:
“This item may cause fire which can result in personal injury and even death”  

Caution is a virtue

I’m a travelling salesman
between the 1A on 91.3
and songs that hurt
on my Pandora station
I go door to door
selling hope
The problem with
selling hope
is having some to
spare
a client once told me
“you can’t front a berry
and still make a berry”
I think she was
talking about ******
but the sentiment
stands.

July 5th, 1:07am
I love you, deeply

July 8th, 3:44pm
I love so many things about you

Subtle.

In week one
I decided that
completely powerless
was the safest feeling
I had ever felt

In week two
gifted expensive whiskey
and mommy issues
told you all my secrets

In week three my skin
was healthier
for having known you
and nothing felt so dark
as before

In week four
I heard every song
sound
as if on  
acid

In week five
you showed me
that he did not have
the cornerstone
on breaking my heart
I would not know that until
week seven

In week six
_space_

In week seven
typing…

In week eight I watched
the blood move down skin
which had not been opened
in better than two years
It was then
I knew
the shelter had become
the storm.

I don't count the weeks anymore
It is winter now.

This ocean
This beach
This body
are proof
that life
and death
are not
mutually exclusive

They are sitting
turned facing away
from a world of water
Small but unforgiving
waves crash at their
backs

They are smiling
laughing even
overwhelmed with joy and
bliss

How is it that they
capture this moment
so completely?

They don't concern themselves with:
sea monsters,
shipwrecks,
or the thousands
of pounds of plastic
littering the oceans
floor

The wind blows soft
and cool
the water feels warm
and their mother
smiles as she wipes
their salt stung eyes
on the borrowed
beach towel.

Wayfinder or Polaris
was the name of the poem
that had been ping-ponging around my periphery
for the better part of two months

This, I thought, would be my magnum opus
the most perfect expression
of the safest direction
I’ve ever known

I envisioned myself writing it out
finally
in Word on my Dell
between case notes
or maybe on a scrap piece of paper
while parked waiting for a client

No fanfare

that is how I imagined it
Important things always flowed effortlessly
like the boy with hair
that was my new favorite color

But that was not the reality
that I have ever lived in

Wayfinder: Polaris
My dad had tried to explain it to me many times:
“The northern star is located in the little dipper;
it is the last star in the handle”

It was lost on me, though

So I tattooed the words on my skin
never considering the still raised lines could
somehow outlast the sentiment
of the lover who never actually

had to speak the words

*typing…

The words pierced through the too bright cellphone screen
directly into the place she had always known that was true
               too much
He was not the first to tell her
He was not the first she had believed
                     “Less is more”
She had tried so many times to channel
But her love was:
a riptide
       a volcano
        a force of nature
It exploded in every direction
like riders in the desert in search of towns
with food
                         with water
                      with shelter
Her love was:
too hungry
               too thirsty
                  too weather worn
for its once agreeable host
Her host who had once said,
      “Let me drink you dry”
He found that there was no bottom
Only more of the same:
Insatiable. Hungry. Love.
And once he had drank his fill
He declared:
                                     “maybe I needed less.”