***
a word so bad
it didn’t even need
four letters

they told us
to wait for
our future husbands
to treat the boys we
dated as if they
belonged to someone else

that if we wouldn’t do it
with our parents in the room
it wasn’t okay
to do at all

that there was
some kind of higher
spirituality achieved
by celibates and singles
but of course that
couldn’t be for everyone
(as if needing human
companionship made you weak)

******* would send
you to hell and
of course the gays were
already there

that our virginity was the most
important part of ourselves
and losing it before due time
was the worst thing we could do
but all would be better
if we said we were sorry
swore never
to do it again

there were contracts
pledges, oaths
and jewelry
if you didn’t have
a ring you weren’t
doing it right

purity
virginity
words thrown around like
hand grenades into foxholes
as insurance policy against
pregnancy and stds

a barrage against the
onslaught of our culture
morality reduced to making
guys and girls sit on
different sides of the room
and debates in the mirror
over the length of skirts
and scoop of necklines

for something we weren’t
supposed to do
they sure made us think
about it an awful lot

meanwhile
back home in our own
bedrooms all the songs
on our radios and
the movies on our tvs
told us a very different story

somewhere along the line
i got so confused i
convinced myself i never
wanted *** at all
when i finally felt
desire stirring
in the pit of my stomach
it was terrifying

i thought since i
had never felt it
that made me immune
but it really just made me
in deep
deep denial

a denial that persisted
through late evenings
of exploring another
person’s body
learning to trust someone
with my own

they told us until we said
i do
there was no reason
to believe anything would last

and some nights i can’t sleep
with worrying about
some inevitable burning and
collapse of the building called us

i feel my parents’ gazes boring
right through my chest and
hope they never find out
what i’ve been doing

turtlenecks to cover the stain
of love notes on my neck
having something on
my body to hide
takes me back to being fifteen
and the judgement of strangers
a dead weight in my stomach
and sweaters past my palms

but the feeling of your lips
and hands and breath
in my ear and for a few minutes
i don’t care that tomorrow
i’ll be trying to forget
that i’m not as pure
as they once told me
i would stay

but i am no longer
in denial
only suffocating
in guilt

“you having a bad week bri?”
hilary peers over the glass partition
between me and reality
“me? a bad week?
how can it be a bad week
when it’s only monday?”

but the truth is
it’s usually not
a great week
here for me
when my life is how it is
their lives are how they are

kayla had her baby
before christmas
haven’t seen sam
in forever
jennifer still doesn’t like
dressings or sauces
but she doesn’t call in her
usual every day anymore

still getting calls every morning
what’s the soup special?
barb drinks the same
cappuccinos as always
still can’t see properly but
she’s still trying
jim and dorothy like it when
i make their sandwich
because they say i’m the only
one who gets the chips right
nicadamus just didn’t
show up one day and
nobody quite knows
where he went

now mckenna walks
around the counter and
puts his arms around me
because i’m his girl
and him?
he’s my whole world

i bring mint brownies to the
brewery for the older couple
i smile when children smear
their grubby fingers across
the bake case that was just
cleaned and pretend it doesn’t
bother me to fish uneaten
coleslaw shards out of the drain

ray passed away
in july and nobody
told me because they
thought i knew
last week i find out rita
has gone on too
and the feeling in my
stomach sinks
into relief that she’s not
without him anymore

susan stops by sometimes
for lunch on her way to
see janice who is now
in the nursing home for good
and it’s better for her
but she doesn’t understand

the same faces come through
but a little tickle in the back
of my brain tells me some
of them haven’t been in
i can’t help myself from hoping
they’re all okay

new faces appear
i tell myself not to get
attached to them but after
weeks of making the same
items over and over just
the way they want
it gets hard not to see others
as an extension of my routine

the world is spinning
at an alarming rate
my heart is still running
at a declined pace

“well, breezer
between me and you”
maureen says
(she calls me breezer
and i call her a salve
to my cold 7am soul)
“i don’t blame you
you can’t stay here forever
and it’s a hard job
i couldn’t do it”

my mother tells me i’m not
going anywhere
maureen tells me there are
better things out there for me

and i tell myself i can
steep fulfillment into
complete strangers’
cups of tea

what i was saying to hilary
was that past a certain age
nobody tells you you’re
doing a good job
“we do in my office”
she says with a
who-hurt-you
expression

maybe in offices it works that way
but maybe i couldn’t force myself
into a plate glass cage where
telephones never stop
ringing and “coffee”
comes out of a k-cup

indecision
grinds its teeth
and i find myself clapping my
hands over the register and saying

“you’re doing your best!
you got this, c’mon
let’s get some espresso in you
and you’ll feel better
you can do anything
even get through today”

when i look in the mirror
i hear myself screaming
that all i have to do
is get through today
words echo through my
brain that i will get
through this
that i am smart
and beautiful and change
begins by knowing i am
worthy of better things

but i also realize it’s easier
to drown out the doubt
when you hear it from
someone else
so whoever and
wherever you are
if you need this affirmation, take it
pass it on, even

keep grinding, girl
you’re doing a great job

they write poems about
boys who are flowers and
sunlight or oceans and salt spray
boys who are soft and lovely

when they write poems about
men they are all whiskey and
loud voices or sneers and fists
men who are angry and violent

i’ve yet to read a poem
about someone like you
because they don’t write poems
about people who just are
who they are with no
exceptions or exclamations

i call you my boy
because you’re soft
but you’re really a man
(the clunky boots prove that)

but now that i’m writing this
poem i hesitate to call you
a man because heaven forbid
anyone think you
are made of sharp angles
and muddy truck beds

and i was scared
because they say men
carry guns and threats
and aspartame compliments
and condoms
in their wallets

but you just carry
a coffee cup
a smart phone
with stickers on the case
and a tiny spatula hanging
on your keys

so i handed you my heart
not ripped out but
scored and carefully
torn around the edges
slightly warm and still
faintly bearing

and you took it
held it in your hand
smiled at it
smiled at me

and placed it in one
of your pockets
under the phone
and the keys and
the wallet and
the coffee mug where
it couldn’t possibly
fall out

and let it warm for awhile
waited for the beat to
grow back stronger
until you held it fully
circulating and rejuvenated
but you didn’t hold on

you handed it back
set it gently in the
hole i had left
in my chest

and i felt the blood
start pouring through
my veins like i never believed
was possible for me

and i swear that even though
you said i could keep my
heart if i wanted to
i swear that i would
give it back to you
again and again
for the rest
of my life

along with the rest of me
my body and soul
completely
you can have me
no guarantees
just me

cracked open and sometimes
still the blood seeps out
but i am healing and learning
to trust that you will
hold me while i continue
to learn to trust myself

growing is painful
and messy and sometimes
people grow a little
bit crooked

but it’s okay for me
to cry on your shoulder
instead of alone
where the darkness
chokes and claws
through my throat

it’s okay for me
to grow
it’s okay for me
to love you

to love my boy
whose eyes are the sky
to love my man
whose hands are the earth

my boy who still watches cartoons
and plays video games til late
and my man who answers my questions
even if he has to look them up

my boy who leaves love bites
on my neck like we’re in junior high
and my man who will go downtown at
midnight to get concealer for them

my boy who buys me nugs
my man who cooks me dinner
my boy with his single dimple
my man with his scruffy beard

my man with his sturdy
strong hands
my boy who makes up silly
names for things

my boy who teases me mercilessly
and my man who hugs me tight until
the panic passes and stands
beside me when i’m afraid

i still get butterflies in
my stomach when you
walk in unexpectedly
and on days when the
sun doesn’t shine you
still make me smile

so here is a poem about
a boy made of orange september
sunlight and april afternoons
kisses on cheeks
rosemary and lemon zest

a poem about a man made
of electric july nights
a crunch on january snow
fluffy white smoke clinging to the ceiling
shimmering glass swirls of orange peel

i am fiercely
inadequate at expressing
concrete emotions

but the emotion you evoke
in me is a tidal wave of
calm and chaos all at once
and if the world were burning
i’d like to go down with your
mouth still on mine

it’s yours
everything i’ve got
you can have
anything for you

my boy
my man
my whole world

a thin sheet of ice
on a windshield
beach glass green
in the morning light

a frosted vase
in milky seafoam
red roses proudly
piled upwards

windows
you can’t see out of
and doors
that won’t lock tight

eyes that see
everything
and a haze over
my mind’s eye that
prevents any of it
from registering

reality reduced to
coffee and bread
aches in feet and
crumpled tissue paper promises
to be kind to myself
to not be so sad
so needy
so weak
so tired
so fogged

this part of my life
(the current present that has
continued on for years)
is the purgatory between
the past
and the future
so i spend my days
banging on the glass and
screaming for purpose
and nights letting slippery
tears freeze over
and crystallize on my pillow

if i could fix myself
don’t you know i
would have by now?

if i could make up
my mind do you think
i would still be here?

hurt me
please
but please don’t
tell me i can do this

if i could do this don’t you
think i would have?

i.
between adjectives and history, math and PE, school never taught us that colors lie.
welcome to your new education.

ii.
yellow is a happy color.
in school they teach us about vincent van gogh, and how he ate yellow paint because he thought if he had a happy color in his veins, he would be happy, too. the paper-girls who exercise fake distress think that’s romantic. it’s not.

iii.
secretly i wonder if i washed out all my tears and replaced them with acrylic, if i opened up my rib cage instead of my broken bleeding heart they would be only yellow.

iv.
yellow is the color of broth in aphabet soup, you make for me when i am sick. today i’m not sick, i just couldn’t bear to go to school- feel the stares of all the golden children on the back of my neck.
you are nowhere to be found, there is just the yellow broth beneath the letters in my soup. i can feel it staring up at me and now i really do feel sick.
there is only yellow.

v.
yellow is the color of the record you play when you don’t want to talk. you turn it up so loud that i can feel it in my bones. i go to my room and shut the door just a bit too hard, where yellow sunbeams light up my room like lasers.

vi.
i am conflicted.
yellow lights up the world and sunshine lights up my body. i used to think that’s romantic. it’s not. yellow is supposed to be a happy color. the broth in my soup and the record you put on and vincent van gogh play in my head like mice when the cats away.

vii.
i wonder i can falsify to prying eyes that i love sunshine because i am happy.
i wonder if i can prove to my dying mind that i love yellow because it is a cure?

vii.
i wish inside of insides, i was full of sunshine.