You laid on the right side of the bed
toward the wall, tightly tucked between
scuffed paint and my bony shoulders.

You drove from St. Louis, a full eight hours
to spend a cheap night's sleep next to me
(if  you can even call that sleeping).

We got drunk and peeled off every stitch
of clothing we were wearing.
It was probably our worst idea so far.

I didn't sleep a minute
in this crowded twin sized bed,
made for a single body.

You woke up and kissed me –
my neck, my shoulder, my chest
from the inside of the bed where
maybe you felt safe
between a scuffed wall
and a sharp shoulder bone.

Now I look to the inside, toward the wall,
scuffs like scars, the wear and tear,
and remember the indent your body made:

fetal – curled and slightly sinking, wrapped
in a rumpled, thick flannel blanket
I had kicked my way out of hours before.

But it's all over now. You left
weeks ago with no plans to return.
I knew that, and it's my fault
for looking so defeated now,
a single indent in this twin sized bed.

I ran my race,I did my best.
I'm not the champion,I'm among the rest.
After twenty six miles I'm scant of breath.
I push myself but there's not much left.
I search the crowds on Boyleston Street.
for the friends That I'm supposed to meet.
I see an upraised friendly sign
that marks my race's finish line.
Then thunder, fire, billowing smoke.
The air is acrid and I am choked.
The starter clock reads Four oh Nine
as I fall across the finish line.
I think of him from ancient times
who ran a race as long as mine
To Athens he sped from Marathon
to bring good news in a troubled time.
My news is evil, I scarce can speak
of what I saw there in the street
A loud report, a second bomb,
A portion of the grandstand gone
A blur of color, the flag brought down
I see the picture but there's no sound.

I want to write
And I want to write far
Farther than distance and
Farther than a mile feels when you're
Expected
To run in gym class.

I want to
Inspire.

And the word seems
Thick
Like elephant skin
Or those
Cracked leather jackets that bikers wear.

It seems 'out there'
Like a planet
Somewhere that we
Haven't sent probes to.
In the middle of swallowed up
Space.

But I want to
Inspire

Like
J.K. Rowling
Or
E.B. White
Or
J.R.R. Tolkein

And all of those other
Blocked up
Official sounding
Initials.

I could have initials.
Be E.M. Tyler or just
E. Tyler.
And people would
Wonder what the E. stood for

And one day I would
Sign an autograph
"Emily"
And they would call
The New York Times
And the search would be over
And ambitious fans
Would exclaim in exhuberance.

And they wouldn't have even read my book yet.