it's coming.
it's coming.
my mom always
says it's coming,
a revelation, an
epiphany, on a
fast moving train
a note on the end
of a bullet, I'm
waiting, I'm
outside waiting
for a prophecy
to be dropped
into my hands
with a how-to
where-to, when-to
i'm here, I'm outside
I'm outside, I'm here
I'm here.
is it coming
is it coming



is it coming?

at the top of the stairs,
shadowed, but fringed
in sunlight, bent down
to rub my ankle, stopped
to wipe your lips, stopped
to turn and smile, traveling
up your arm in the snow
curled fingers around my
toes after soaked boots
a hundred mugs of
apple cider and the
click of your eyelids
taking photographs.

too bad
our definitions
of beauty define
everyone but
ourselves.

before you left i dragged you the mall, we actually took your car
and I told you about the skin under my thigh that felt like a mountain
pasture and then we went into Teavana where the cashier manipulated me
into buying forty dollars worth of tea leaves and I felt like **** afterwards
because i hadn't really wanted to buy forty dollars of tea leaves. You didn't
roll up your sleeves, but you stopped me in the middle of the walk way by
Starbucks and the American Girl store and took the bag. You took my wallet,
my receipt, my heart, and told me stay there. When you came back, you said
you had returned it.  I stood in awe of you, ready to cry. You had skin, lungs,
eyes and a mouth, living, breathing, ready to lie at my expense.  That was the first
time I held your arm in months. Looking back, maybe it was only child parts of me
clinging to the one person that continued to stand up for me, i don't know. i really don't
know.

I still have that receipt.

i
keep
hoping
you'll
talk
to
me
first


                     you're
                     just
                     a
                    ghost


what
about
endings
do
I
not
understand
?


                          how
                          done
                          with
                          me
                          are
                          you?


i
made
everything
abundantly
clear
to
everyone
but
myself.

she is a flash
across the wheat-field
a tribal dance of light
across the grass, even
her shadow is thrown
across the sky.

i am your

                                                  arrow


r­elease me where
you
will

there is something
moving about being
replaced by flowers.