I've got daydreams
of you pushing our lips together
and  I realize I am a late bloomer-

I have gone so long without
the realization that
I can feel comfortable
being wanted, that
I can crave people touching
me gently
and while I know it will be hard
not to flinch,

I am at long last
allowing myself to feel
desirable and
to desire in return

you may never use this power but
in thanks for the clarity you
have returned to me,

I give you the permission
to touch the art.
To lay your hands in the arch
of my spine,
rest your head on my shoulder,
and fall asleep next to my steady heartbeat.

This is not something I
have ever given, and
it is new to me
but you are beautiful in such a way
that it makes me feel pretty
just sitting next to you.

i.
i jar spare change for my trip home.
it’s moved away from me recently,
it sleeps across concrete rivers now.

i jar my change for the ferryman,
he will recognize me soon.
i will make this migration often,
and soon he will wink at me when i come to sit in his boat-
he knows what’s pulling me down the river.

and when i come collapse
into your arms,
my weariness will melt away,
wicking away in the warmth of you.

and i’ll be home,
for a while.


ii.
ice clenched between my teeth
i pull away from you
ferryman doesn’t wink this time.
he knows how bitter it is.

iii.
my spare change tink-tinks into the bottom of my jar.

the cold on my skin
is worth it.

summer wouldn’t be as sweet without the snow.

The Sun
beats upon my
shoulders
a drunk
Father stinging me;
Your face
red and peeling,
grins past
your straw.

A hot day
spent dunked
in the ice
water;
Green and
slow moving with
algae.

i have learned to live despite your bitter soil.
i will thrive without your support,
as i always have.
i am hardy and i do not wilt when the
cold comes.
you will not **** me,
not with your herbicides and
your kind words.
you will not tame me,
with your great blades that
churn the earth.
i will bloom through your efforts to
**** your garden,
a stubborn marigold in your sea of tulips.

you will not take from me what you want.
come time for me to bear a snowy head,
i will travel on the winds,
away from your small,
constrictive garden.
you will never wish upon me again.

i am not a poet
i am simply cataloging my life
and saying it pretty.

poems are always about love and hate,
the great dramas of life.

my world is a quiet one,
and all i have to write about
are small dreams and
little moments.

i have heartbeats that would be a sin
to forget so
i immortalize them the only way i know how:
flowery words with no rhythm

I have been awake,
perhaps a little longer than I should have.
My door is cracked and I hear you stirring.

The sun has risen, but the light that travels through
the window is still soft.
Your coffee machine gurgles,
and I think
what a wonderful thing to fall asleep to.
You are quiet but I still hear the gentle

tink-tink-tink

of your spoon upon your mug.

Your gentle morning mayhem
has become my lullaby,
and i know I will rest easier for it.

I was wrapped in black
fur and white fur and
you undid me and then
you placed me in gold light
and then you crowned me,
while snow fell outside
the door in diagonal darts.
While a ten-inch snow
came down like stars
in small calcium fragments,
we were in our own bodies
(that room that will bury us)
and you were in my body
(that room that will outlive us)
and at first I rubbed your
feet dry with a towel
becuase I was your slave
and then you called me princess.
Princess!

Oh then
I stood up in my gold skin
and I beat down the psalms
and I beat down the clothes
and you undid the bridle
and you undid the reins
and I undid the buttons,
the bones, the confusions,
the New England postcards,
the January ten o'clcik night,
and we rose up like wheat,
acre after acre of gold,
and we harvested,
we harvested.