I’ve never enjoyed
feeling cold
brittle, crackling, painful
my toes perpetually stiff.
Sharp inhales that give way
to traitorous clouds
venting out my heat.

He understands, too.
Preferring sweltering, and slowly
sinking into the warmth
of a summer day.

My anger burns hot
ripping through the air
blazing up then burning out
as quickly as it started. Yet
he recoils
pulling into himself -
balancing the scales.

Beginning with snow drifts,
he grows sheets of ice
freezing over lakes
forming glaciers. Slow to move,
to forget, the earth holding the shape
of his anger.

I’m left shuddering, wondering, if spring
will ever come again.

Giggling
The smell of baby powder
Oranges and hide away
Playing pretend with the dog -
the most expensive Barbie we owned.
sharing clothes
sharing parties
sharing rooms
sharing blood and parents and siblings and friends and smells and memories and
Little snores, keeping time through the night
A weird little heartbeat letting me know
you were always there with me.

Fights rising up like
Our summer storms
Sudden and violent,  persistent enough
To drench our memories.
Scary enough to send you crying
Sometimes to mom
sometimes just to yourself
somehow, as an enemy,
you were always there with me.

Manhunt in the neighborhood
flashlights in the dark
playing jungle
adrenaline fresh through our blood
tagging along like - a little friend
a little nuisance
a little sister
you were always there with me.

Fighting my own battles
the windshield wipers on my eyelids
couldn’t keep up
and so I couldn’t always see
you were always there with me.

then I went away right?
and so we split
grades, grades, grades, boys
for the both of us.
the most distant we’d both been
Yet something starting there
hard enough to see
something new growing and
all that time
you were always there with me

Now you have
your own baby powder smells
and your kids have their own dog
to dress up
you live just a bit away
but somehow
the less we share the more we give to one another.
well
the more I give to you
I don’t think you were ever the problem
Because
You were always there with me

and now you give me
nephews
and a godchild
chances to be a hero
to be the best (SO WHAT IF I’M THE ONLY?!)
aunt.
game night memories
And one on one time
In your life times one hundred chaos
in your cookie filled house
a place to always stay
an ear to always have
a harbor from my storms
somehow
you make all this space
for your tag along nuisance of
an older sister
as the closest kind of friend.
Because somehow,
luckily enough for me
You are always here with me.

Fabrics
Blue and gold, swirling patterns
Each piece the beginning of a story
Tangled in each other’s words
yet each their own book
dissected and created into
a dissertation.
libraries of stitches
Theories of color.

Time
easing along like we’ve been easing
these seams.
I try to stretch each moment with you
savoring your grilled cheese
the sun on the window
evening out the unfairness of time
lining up shapes with the same intentionality
of the love you have given
us. I need this.

Music
the humming of the machine
unexpected laughter
the beauty of a memory born
swelling quietly into a symphony
making gentle space for the present
and one thought
pervasive as a heartbeat
thudding again and again softly
in my chest
thank you.

Who poisoned the food?
is it coming
from me or them?
the smell wafts towards me
warm and sentimental
seemingly a feast but
but
bringing me back
100 years ago
to when the world was a darker place
to when
i was small
and alone
even around them

A century of growth
and still the smallest shift
and this mountain threatens to crumble
like the crust on this pie
like the scenery around us
perilous and beautiful
twisting
contorting
the peaks in the distance
as inviting as they are cold and brittle.

Should I tell them?
About this poison.
or just let it sink in
slowly
darkening these memories
until they look just like
the faded photographs in my mind.

You’re sneaking drinks



Again.


Please don’t keep on
With the wine bottles under the sink
Bloodier than any imagery
In the Shining
Flooding through our lives
Drowning us in solemnity
Tangible and heavy and soggy and moist
You said you won’t

Here comes my fall
Clinging to your lifeboat words
Trust
A precarious thing
Toppling in a rogue wave
Washed deep underneath
Unfathomable pressure
I’m running out
of air.

The girl next to me
Hasn’t made eye contact
This whole ride
We haven’t exchanged words,
So I review my own.

Oh the words of a younger me!
Scratch a dent in the sand
Before the tide comes in
Tickling my mind and
A little grating
But still cute and quaint
A heart drawn with a stick
Before being washed away

Oh the body of an older me!
I am too aware of
Growing moles
And fat
A stereotype wrapped in personality
cracking as the story of me
Slowly sets in

Oh the idea of future me!
who knows the amount of blank left
to fill?
I know nothing but that
Slowly
I am learning
To take up space

This train keeps stopping
And we are granted
views of construction trucks
Pallets
Stone walls
And our own thoughts

Bodies shrugged over seats like sweaters
Boredom leaking out through pores
Flooding this compartment
As stagnant as a puddle

Yet,
Being a passenger
The view ever shifting scenery
somehow
stills time for me
Making space for sentimentality

Contemplating
Loving deeply now
scraps of fabric
Seeming so unimportant on their own
But together forming a quilt
Who knew? My love language is
Sewing
Piecing together
Quiet moments
Cleaning sinks of dishes
Scheduling our dreams
Making fun of reality Tv
Trivia
- don’t forget missionary
Made less and less of grand adventure
And more of our home

While these dreams once seemed
So small they serve
To cover us
And keep us warm
Through the winter of the world.

I once dreamed
That I dreamed enough
To give a little tablespoon to someone else.
Anyone
In that moment of darkness
To be a light.
A splash of color
In an otherwise lovely monotony.

I wouldn’t use clever anymore
Passionate, wise, unique
Or even particularly brave
To etch on my legacy

Is this the grand canyon
Of long shifting waters, carving out
Depression after depression?
Or, is this wisdom? As I gain wrinkles and layers and lose organs I wonder.
How radically misguided can our best intentions can be? Is that perspective?
Is it becoming so reserved as to become inanimate?
Stuck still like clay and rock and rubble in a pit deep enough to be seen from outside earth’s bubble. But not having the decency to rage like the hurricane on Jupiter, not nearly as remarkable.
Keeping a silent tally. 28, 30, 35.

Maybe I can weigh my words against action, against feelings, and intention. Maybe I can return to water.
Even just a tablespoon.