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Knead your problems into dough
none of them can survive
at 375 degrees Fahrenheit

When you wake up late
add one chocolate chip
for every minute of morning you missed
take out one chocolate chip
for every time you are unkind

A teaspoon of sugar
for every crumb
that he left on your eggshell heart
a tablespoon of salt
for each time you’ve missed the way
his callused hands felt on your voice box

Drift away on clouds of flour
float down rivers of vanilla extract
a dozen cookies for every time you’ve flinched
at the sound of your own breath

On your knees
burn your throat
watch the cookies resurrect
flush to decompose.
The morning I found the box
of photo albums in the attic
I learned that
the sun would have risen
even if I hadn't

Daylight is not necessarily
a good metaphor
for life

There you were
ten years earlier
having a picnic on the kitchen floor
despite the rain storm
visible through the foggy window behind you

You can make sandwiches
in any type of weather
but seeing the photos
loaned me understanding of why
you don't eat rye bread anymore

When I went back down stairs
I took our bread box outside to the birds
and made you soup
in silence.
You are not what I am looking for
not the flashlight in a power outage
not my mother’s hand when crossing a busy street
not a glass of wine in the middle of a stressful week.

You are not kind or creative
you are not clever or desirable
you are not unique.

You are drunk
pulling on my skirt
pleading for permission that I’m too weak to deny

I am trying to blend in with the walls
as I watch you stumble down the hall to grab my waist
You are not what I am looking for.

You are bored and pessimistic
you are "I love you" one night
you are “I don’t want you” the next day
either way you are hovering over my chest
your fingers laced with my flesh
you are not what I am looking for.

You are a broken promise
you are the winter tree who refuses to grow leaves again the spring
you don’t believe in seasons
you are resistant to any change.

You are “I’ll stop” but never when you should
you are leaving me before I have the chance to leave you
running down the stairs screaming “catch me if you can”
unaware that I am anchored to my stance.
you are not what I am looking for.


You are a text that I usually leave blank
you are the shot of whiskey that finally leaves me drunk in the passenger seat of your car
you are playing really awful music
really loud.

You are “please, just this once” until 4 a.m.
I say “then will you let me sleep”
you smile as you steal opportunity from my heavy eyelids
you are an empty coffee cup and an awkward silence
the following morning
you are not what I am looking for.

You are “What if I never fall in love”
you are “I don’t want to be alone”
you are chain smoking  after an argument
you are using me
you are uncertainty
you are not what I am looking for.
I had a heart
that was concrete like sidewalk
you had a voice like chalk

I swore I was going to
memorize your laugh
try to photograph
the way it would add color
to the grey gaps
where not even weeds would
dare to grow

it is too bad
chalk succumbs so easily
to rain.
Imagining was inspired by poetry class on Decmber 1, 2014 when my professor told the class that break ups hurt sometimes because the people involved focus on what they were going to do together rather than what they actually did do together and I thought that was so true. I've played around with this poem a bit over the past month, but I think I like it how it is now.
That night it snowed
so hard
I melt you between my lips
like an ice cube

Each time I touched your ribs
I was trying to let my love echo
through my fingertips

I fell half asleep on your bare chest
as you repeatedly said
“I love waking up to you”

I love:
waking up
you
I wrote this poem last winter, but figured I would share it now as a welcome to the new winter season!
I spent six years playing padiddle
with the shine in your eye
each time you winked.

Now I am falling asleep
beneath a blanket of sweat
imagining how few seasons are left
before the honeybee
is only able to live in captivity.

I would never touch you with angry hands.
Apparently I could never touch you
with the right words either.

“It is hard to hate a broken thing.”
Even harder sometimes
to accept some things
are broken.
Difficult Indifference is an apprentice poem that I wrote after reading Lisa Ferguson’s poetry collection, It’s Hard to Hate A Broken Thing. Ferguson’s poetry alluded to all different kinds of relationships and inspired me to think about some of the damaged relationships in my own life. As much as I keep trying to save my bestfriend from her marriage, I realize that maybe she isn’t ready to let it go, even if her marriage is abusive and detrimental to our friendship as well as her wellbeing. My friend refuses to recognize that her romantic relationship is broken; it has taken me awhile to realize that our friendship is broken in a lot of places, too. The honeybee reference brings the poem back to nature, keeping it simple. People farm bees, and sometimes seem to take the honey that they produce for granted – much like how my friend takes the support I constantly try to offer her for granted.
The only time capsule
I ever buried
is decomposing
in the bottom of my belly

filled with the different ways
I have not been able to
cope with loss

It resurrects names
remembers faces
who are changing
and living in different states
while I am still trying to digest
their absence

It looks for the bundle of fur
that once modeled a now
empty, worn collar
unable to comprehend
only one set of brown eyes
gazing up from the floor
during Sunday morning coffee

It is learning to accept its reflection
could just as easily be
a shadow
This poem follows up last weeks poem, Whisper II. 2014 has proved a somewhat difficult year.
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