is this the silent ache
they talk about?
that turns into something
much better?
am I growing without
really knowing?
put down your suitcase,
what a weapon it's been

all the things you thought
you had to be, and what
you needed to change,
maybe you didn't have to be wild
but needed a good shake
a good earthquake for that
rebel in you to learn who
you really weren't


all the times you've been stirred from
sleep, well it's okay to dream now,
go ahead and laugh if it loosens up
the dust,
even those that took you far away
fell in line with something greater
a conquest in their direction
doesn't mean you looked the
other way,
lonely barely begins
to describe the storm
but everyone has seen
the smooth stones at
the bottom of the river,
at one point
rough and withstanding,
day to day relenting,
but i've never stopped
to judge a pocked thing,
and it's certainly not
the worst to lose a way or two
or be knocked from a hiding
place,

so it's okay
that you're
all alone,
the road is mighty long
good lord that suitcase, you wield it
like a sword,
it's okay little girl,
we've never had this
in the bag, and if no one's
here to walk you back
then

sometimes you gotta walk yourself home.


sometimes you gotta walk yourself home.

they're asking the
wrong questions
a lot of meaningless
interactions, more
i think, rolling cherry
pits between my
fingers, more
prattling on about
stupid things I
don't care about
you just need a good ****
she says, so blase, as if being
touched by anyone else, kissed
by a stranger would be any better

and i think about how I don't
how I just need a good night's
sleep, a good cry in between
library stacks or a pair of arms
I know too well,
how i only want his
his shoulder, his breath,
how lucky for him that
I can't stand the thought
of anyone else, how i've
tried but leave my phone
at home, ringer at full volume
'cause i know it won't be for
me

you just need a good ****
she repeats, dropping an
orange slice in a pint of blue moon
I can't do that,  I say, won't do that
the ice in my water is melting
that's not who i am.  she
interrupts, sure it is.

but i know better.
they're asking the
wrong questions
saying the dumbest
things, and I have
to believe that they are
wrong, i can't be
the only one who
wants just one
just one person
just one touch
just
one.

i had this dream about you
and your brother, not the one
where you were a boy and I led
you out of the woods--

but we were down by the ocean
and i stood in your shack surrounded
by that thick, mustard yellow carpet from
the 70's and a pair of old workboots, I couldn't
drain the sink but that didn't matter because
i could hear you outside,
rustling around inside your pockets
your jeans were filled with condoms
what did you expect, brooke? you
ask me, palms out and up, I shake my head.

what?  in that carhartt and vest.
What? louder.
you start towards me and I realize
that this is a dream I can't wake up
from, the deck is disappearing, the
house disintegrates, your boots
sound hollow on ocean water
and the only thing I can see
are the minnows scattering
your hands out to your sides
yelling
*what
     di d  you e   x pe ct

jack of hearts.

i can hear you
greeting every single person
with a sideways hug and a slap on the back
and the words echo down to widen the crack,
these people are fillers, are caulking, are clay
their presence is a temporary fix,  a belay
a hold on the rope, a helium anchor
the weight of a person held down by paper


you used to put me there cause I fit just right
nestled into that place where you had
carved out a ledge, less room for emotion,
for feelings, for thoughts, a space to put
whiskey, clean sheets and some guns

you reckon you're empty, that people
can forget, but these pennies are wishes
that you can't be rid,
each wish is a stone tethered back to the source
when you find you've been slinging rocks
at your younger self--

the injured rabbit beneath
the porch, the ghost in the attic was you all along
rattling chains, speaking in tongues, writing down
in the books that this was all you've got, all you've got
to give, all you have to offer, that if this didn't work
then nothing would ever--

and i can't tell you enough how much
that isn't true, how beautiful you are in
the sun and at night, covered in shadows
whispering hank williams songs or sharpening
knives, sprawled out in the bed sweating bulleit rye
with these soft little breaths clenching your shoulder blades
tight, with your back to me trembling beneath my touch
it's been a while since you said that felt good.

I've never immortalized so many moments
wondering if i'd ever get them back, but i've
made the process worse by opening my mouth
i've never been the easiest task, always formulas
and charts and long scrawled out graphs
words and scripture and please-be-safe prayers
split down the middle and made of a jury
a table of people watching you perform
you've probably felt like you loved a crowd
an audience of me all staring you down
but
i
promise that the person i want to be
will be softer and kinder, capable of
unfolding, unlocking, unsheathing,
opening, and stronger and easy
to
love.

and i'm praying for nothing
but for god to crash this train
and ruin who i don't want to be
because i can't stand the person I am
and can't wait for the person I want to be
and if honesty isn't enough, then actions
will have to do
cause I have to
think i'm enough, darlin.
I have to think I'm enough
without hearing it from you

I am convinced he must be
like my dad,
who works next
to the wasps and they
are not at all unsettled by
his presence,
he gently blows them away
when they settle near his knuckles--

yes, you must be like him
because my father is the only
man I know who speaks to
hummingbirds and knows
just about anything you'd
need to know about jet planes
or rifles,

he's hanging the welcome sign
talking about the grass out back
loving me despite how little
affection i've shown him growing
up, still navigates around
fears, discrepancies and
every decision I never made

he must be like you
you must be like him
packing in church
carrying drilled pennies
and two dollar bills,
i dunno
i dunno.

you taught me that
the shaky old men
in bars have the most
to say

so now these veterans
come into the bank and whisper
about funds, fill me in
about navy ships and
rifles and I listen
intently--

and I'm not as scared
of dark places, of people
i don't know 'cause everyone
just wants to talk, just wants
to know someone else--

i don't know much about you
like you said, just that you're
wounded in a lot of ways but
play it off pretty good

don't we all, though?
routine you said,
****** nights, ****** conversations
I kept hoping, kept thinking
kept believing that maybe
this, maybe that--
i can't say for sure that
he doesn't hate me, but
i will always want to tell
him to get home safe
or to rub his back,
maybe this
maybe that

but maybe's bring no one back
neither do confessions, or kisses
indian head pennies, buckles
or engraved pistols,
when someone is done
they are
done.

the truth is
i am hoping
you remember
me soft and malleable
sweet wine vinegar
wandering
the backwoods in all
my bittersweetness
twisting in my sleep
or humming
incoherent songs
in the passenger
seat.