when i was one and fourteen
i knew a woman whose soft hands could make colors fly
wherever she told them to,
covering canvasses and fluttering into human hearts with a
puff
of breath.
a woman of Hope, a woman of Pocatello--
her spine was the trunk of a tree, her mind abundant with fruit
she told me about colors, wild geese, and what it means to be beautiful
she told me to show up, pay attention, tell my truth,
and not be attached to the outcome--
but i was, so much.

i am one and seventeen
i am a woman with soft hands, i speak to colors and make them fly:
they cover canvasses, bodies, and hearts.
a woman of Campbell, a woman of Heron--
i press my back against trees and imagine what it would be like
to have one for a spine.
i know about colors, wild geese, and what it means to be beautiful
i know that i spent years trying to cling
to the slippery, slimy, gelatinous blob that is the future--
it sure is beautiful from a distance.

no one will ever know what's at the bottom of the ocean
not you, not me, not scientists, not bob dylan
and frankly, it's no ones business
let her keep a secret or two, okay?
let her mysteries stump generations
let technology fail and lights go off and
powerlines collapse
disaster!
allow disaster
allow the new, the numinous
break your clock
cook pasta for a nice girl and watch for when birds
are just playing

i think about you when my heart
       breaks, shifts, cracks, expands
in that way, and yes, i wonder
if you do too.
but mostly, i just think about you

mostly i just remember
deer and batcaves and the shoulder
of my t-shirt warm and wet,
ashes flying from airplanes and
secrets that are still buried at
the base of that one eucalyptus tree
loopholes in the u-drive and clarkfork cake
and a feeling that all of forever
was happening all at once and every
bit of it was okay, more than okay

i guess i shouldn't write poems about you
anymore,
i guess i should separate scattered nostalgia
from the linear chill of
now.

i sat by that eucalyptus tree the other day,
i hope you're doing good.

do you know everything about me?
would i be familiar if we spoke,
or would you see me as half a mystery--
some warped young girl of six who grew up
wrong.

could i talk to you anyway,
could i tell you and would you understand
the deja-vu-type feeling of the same
way other people break my heart
for good as well as bad?

anyway, i would tell you that no one
is gentle enough.
i've been listening to bob dylan all day and maybe
i'd like to talk to him, too.

you are six years old and i want to tell you
that soon you will understand things better
even if it hurts
even if you don't want to

you are nine years old and i want to tell you
that your value isn't determined by pain, mistakes, or a long and difficult journey off the beaten path
(theirs isn't determined by blood, either)

you are eleven years old and i want to tell you:
don't shut yourself up, don't stop talking to the moon
because you have a lot to say and someday someone will listen

you are fourteen years old and i want to tell you
that you are precious, you are light
you are a being much beyond this flesh vessel you are so intent on destroying
please, put down the razor and start writing poetry already

you are sixteen years old and i want to tell you
that you are wise but have a lot to learn
you are strong but not invincible
you have a gentle soul and it must be treated as such

hung up like the stiff dress shirt in the closet
the one's that's too tight around the collar
not quite forgotten, but out of the way
not quite useless enough for goodwill

hung up like the phone when the telemarketer
asks if your dead father is there
quickly, don't let them hear what happened to your breath
(but how dare they not now)
(how dare they test me like this i know i am weak)

see also:
a tugging on your shirt sleeve from behind
(i dreamed you were carried away)
it is a fragile movement because so am i
(on the crest of a wave)
you are so close to being so far away
(baby, don't go away, come here)

you are an ache somewhere between my stomach and spine
(i'll forgive you, friend)
you are my writers block
(forgive me and we can be in love again)
and the panic that i've misplaced something important
(forgive me)
that wakes me up at night

if you are a scab that won't heal
i am the one full of grass and childish metaphor
who won't stop picking at it
isn't this just another version of the classic story,
shouldn't i have learned by now that
bringing something back from the dead
doesn't return it to it's original state?

doesn't this in turn make you a waste of time
(i'll forgive you, friend)
doesn't this make you a painful habit
(forgive me, and we can be in love again)
burning smoke in my lungs and i'm coughing
i'm coughing but please
(forgive me)