My mama's eyes say " these are lean times,"
But when she speaks there is no shame,
we will make do.
Yet there is the shadow of fear in the set of her mouth.
It is a fear I might almost understand.
She is afraid, not that we will lose what we have,
but that someday,
I will ask for more,
more to see,
more to read,
more to learn,
more to feel,
more to dream about,
and hope for,
and she will have to be the one to say no, "these are lean times."

I listen to my parents try and indoctrinate my brother with their beliefs,
And I listen to him fail to find the words to express that he too has ideas and thoughts and values,
he too has things he wants and needs and dreams about.
I see the frustration of being old enough to love but not old enough to control
and I listen to him fight till his eyes are red rimmed and his voice is spent because that is what he can give to his cause,
to whatever he chooses to stand up to.
And I don’t agree with him, because I don’t see heaven on a computer screen, but I do see heaven and I know what I see is worth fighting for and he knows that too.
So when he slams the door to his room and screams because he still hasn’t found the words and is being to question whether they exist
I listen to my parents lament his addiction, his obsession, his passion and wonder what they truly want,
because who are they to judge what should be of value to his life.
and the reasons they spit in his face, detachment from reality and consumer products
could describe each book they love me for reading,
each TV show that started out a guilty pleasure but snuck into their daily routine,
and who gets to draw the line.
And maybe that's what parenting is, drawing unwanted lines,
but the fact still remains that he cannot find his voice to fight the logic he sees holes in.
and I wonder again what they want,
for him to be filled with the words they use,
the ideas they value,
the dreams they choose
Because then they should buy a parrot.
Because they need to realize that his anger, angst, and rebellion
is just a search for expression.
and as I listen to my parents try and indoctrinate my brother
I pray that he won’t be the convert,
because as ugly as heresy can seem,
God forbid the day he stops standing up for what he believes in.

I fill my soul, my heart, my head,
And then try, through my fingers,
To tame it, calm it, dilute it.
To take the raw and make it something less agonizing,
To hold, to clutch to myself, to weave into my skin,
I build a fire and hope it won’t burn all the way through me, and the floor as well.

There are the times when I revel in the glow.
And there are times when I consign myself to be nothing more than a pillar of ash,
Easily swept away by a passing brezze.
Yet to cease,
Is to unweave my core,
To let holes stretch,
Till I am more void then girl.
To never feel a blue so mesmerizing that its very existents taunts me to catch it on paper,
Never spend hours trapping butterfly wings on the tip of my pen.
Never see the subtle moments where life is gut wrenchingly, woefully, utterly, complete,
That fraction of a second where the sun breaks the clouds into a sea of many facetted pillars of amaranth , so tangible I second guess their existence, and turning back see that the sun has sunken beyond the horizon.
The instant where a man and his dog glance up in perfect unison, a single being with six legs, four eyes, and one heart.
A first flash of scarlet upon jade, the cherries hang ripe and inviting, tiny globes flashing from behind their leafy bower, as of yet untouched by bird or clumsy human hand.
And so I write.

The ocean was illuminated
A myriad of glowing tendrils sparking from my feet,
Up my spine.

Wading in,
I am an island, my legs glowing pillars against the dark water,
A spec in the night.


All over the bay, fish move in glowing arcs,
But am I the only shining girl, shivering in the water,
Walking on stars.

At shore waves lap against the beach,
Exploding in a second of salt scented light, before streaming back to sea,
Leaving dark wet sand.

And when I to leave shinning grains cling to my feet,
Creating glowing foot prints in my wake,
To fade with day brake and the tide.

We lay hammocked in the breath of passing angels,
Who had no time to stop for us.
Our voices running circles around all we wouldn’t say but understood anyway,
Your hand pressed in the small of my back.
I needed time to slow down
But I couldn’t even slow my heartbeat.
And I wouldn’t look you in the eyes because then I wouldn’t know how to look away.
So I memorized your eyelashes.

I watch my father tear my swing set down,
Standing on a chair to see out the window,
From my upstairs room.
in the effort of pulling up the polls,
The one remaining swing swung.
Though years had passed since I had loved it,
A part of me felt the loss.
The flecks of paint from where a childish hand had outlined my name,
And the squeaking sound from where the lose boards rubbed.
As I saw it in pieces,
I realized that it was never just a swing set,
It was a pirate ship,
A time machine,
A princess’s tower,
A home for the odd assortment of toys,
And memories.
Each board use to hide the rigging of ships,
Or buttons that when pushed could send one to the moon.
The swings where vines in a jungle,
They where airplanes,
Or life boats lost at sea.
I watched my father hoist up the last remaining beams,
And load them into his truck,
How could that car every move under all the weight?

I tried to imagine leaving,
And all I could think of was coming back.
It’s not so much that the idea of departure frightens me,
I can easily imagine existing somewhere else,
I just cannot picture my home existing without me,
Call me self centered if you will.
Just answer me this,
What would become of my room?
There is so much of me in there,
Permanent fixtures that would annoy anyone.
My friends painted on the walls,
Ink staining my carpet,
The broken power outlets, used to such extent that all cords must be at a certain angle to work,
To me these things mean home,
To anyone else they would be annoyance in need of repair.
I think of all the effort it would take to expel my presence from my room,
The repainting, recarpeting, redoing, just to get me out,
Would it be worth the effort?
Then I think of the holes I’ll leave behind me.
The books I’ll have to take with me,
Because leaving even one dog-eared whether worn volume is an utter impossibility.
That alone will leave my room nearly empty.
What about the smell of a freshly baked dessert
Will my pie tins be forced into early retirement?
Or even worse,
Will my lovely dishes be sold?
Given to someone who doesn’t appreciate their scorch marks and abundant cracks.
Will my parents try to fill my rickety bookshelf with their own alien tombs?
The thought disgust me, like if someone else were to use my toothbrush.
But worse than the holes I’ll leave are the things I cannot take with me,
The view from my window,
The prodigal richness of my meadow in spring,
The sledding hill in winter.
For every season, very month, practically everyday there is some joy,
Will I ever be able to recover from the loss?
Yet the core of my being seems to call me away,
Begs me to ascend beyond this cluttered and twisted reminiscence of childhood,
This broken version of a shrinking paradise, to small, to old, to painfully familiar.
Is that what home really,
Somewhere so lived in you cannot bear to leave,
or comprehend staying?