What was it he said
while we sat on the bench


Saturn glimpsed down, considering proposal
but Mars reflected in his own vanity, said no preemptively.
Popsicle boy flicked his hair off his forehead and asked the sun why he was so bored.
"22 thousand civilian casualties in Iran and we don’t even give a ****. Thousands of homeless in this city alone. How is that possible?"
He pointed at a lightning bug.
"I can plant as many community gardens as I want, it still doesn’t make a difference!"

The smidge smudge of pastel over my left eyebrow matches the wildflower I picked down by the river which matches the stray spray paint stain on my right shoe and I’m not one for symmetry, so it suits me just fine. Today is for letting go and for mailing things left behind. Today is for coffee and for Peter Pan Wendy Tiger Lily dances. Today is a blueberry day.

red canvas sneakers
crush a bug on the playground
right where the crayon grass meets the chalk pavement
her feet are
tiny
but the bug is even more insignificant
so it’s all relative, i guess.

the side effects of a well-travelled companion
the complications of the ticket in my hand
the warning signs of my transfer station
i am crying in the back seat of your car
**** it
i am through with this medicated contemplated existence
i am coming through the other side
because i decided it is time to stop being sad

His voice is like flowers, his voice is like puddle skipping, hand-holding, his voice is almost like Thursdays and his work is to speak the words of men long dead. But I like his words best, I like his stammerings and stutterings and ums and ohs and the slip of vernacular into something more spectacular than the slip of his tongue into my mouth.

tiny wrists made up of clothespins

sharp hips made up of awkward wingspans

held my smile like a knife made up of coffee stained teeth

walked me home like a dance with the broken sidewalk
kissed my scared hands with a scarred mouth

I lost my heart when I moved to the city

and I lost my Sunday blues

I found myself a new kind of family

and I found my way back to you

It was a long long road past the bones of the lonely

where my wandering soul met yours

there was a garden filled with the promises of Sarah

the day that we walked blind

to the ghost of the moon and the men that we left

but I found my way back

White tea hotter than the radiator humming
Smile sweeter than the sugar that you lump in
Your hands on my hip while the water heats up
Kind enough to hand me my favorite cup

Even if the smile is painted on
Even if the handle is chipped
Even if you send me away in the morning
Nothing better than the very first sip

Black tea cooling while we find all the clues
The failure of motion allows for a different view
The artist’s intentions were somewhat disturbing
The way that you kiss me just short of unnerving


Even if your hands shake
Even when I hold you tight
Even if you fall asleep before dinner
Pass me the honey, honey, and pass me a light

Green tea spilled while we steep our own Monday
Afternoon rain is your favorite kind of mundane
I let you spoon sugar even though I like it bitter
One taste of the brew and my heart is all a-twitter

Hard Drawn
I found a hole in your ribcage

just above the hard piece of who you were

lodged in my throat

insects on my tonsils

and I found an eyelash on your cheek

just below the wire frames

beneath your perspective

I find myself in between the butterfly shoulder blades of your swan spine.

I think I might stay a while.

i’ve got a crush on a boy i call Elbows.

he’s got grace in his hands and anarchy in his mouth

he’s got angles where i’m soft and softness where i’m angled

You pick me up right on time

"this is for you"

i sip

it’s cold and sweet

just perfect.

before i left, i slipped a salt water painting under your helmet.

You are the velvet to my lace, the freckles on your face, the rocket to outer space when i’m forgetting why my feet need to hit the ground.


You are three seconds away from a sunrise when I desperately need the light, you are a cup of tea and wisdom, and you are a giggle at just the right moment while the blood exchanges ideas between my wide-eyed fanatic manic panic mind and my static acrobatic heart.

You are love and a smile when everything around has fallen dark. We fall down the seasons, each leaf turned to green as the time is subjective as valued.

we fall down the winter of broken glass and torn kneecaps and into the summer of understanding and patched hearts.

We fall down the stairs of the boy who was the blank slate and into the arms of the boy who painted his stone happy.

You are the living room of my soul, where all the pictures make us smile just to look at them and the quilt on the couch is beautiful enough to make up for the small tear in the corner. Where the cups of tea sipped are innumerable as the curls on your head and the watercolor windows open past our souls and into our worlds.

Someday we’ll be able to keep track of our socks and get enough sleep but right now I’m still figuring it out. I’m still trying to connect the sky to the tree to the earth to the tesseracted interaction theatrical statement of who I am and what I will be. We will become.

the mice in my ears

the ink stain on my left arm

tell me to listen

I wasn’t ready for your sky-eyed nostalgia any more than I was ready for my suffragette seclusion.

I couldn’t have swallowed any more of my snake bitten hollow intellect than that which allowed me to kiss your throat to the stars skin.

So I’m hoping the ochre-rayed sun moon stars rain clock parts will aid in the time that can make things like they were in the gazebo with the puddles stuck in my shoes and your hat already full of thoughts.

And then can we spin around again?

I put dates on my wanting to remember my tactile experience at the expense of my memory

"that’s very meta, isn’t it?"

alternation

sublimation

consecration

They have spent their hours wanting for a moment

and They have spent their moments wanting for the hours

I’m weeding through my bedside manner

because I thought the dull thudding of bass line wasn’t just my heart anymore

I met a boy who could see his heart through his chest

and and and

the women on the bench moved anyway

they asked what i was drawing

and the woman’s tattoo looked like adventure

but her face looked like she had spent too much time waiting

and and and

my feet don’t touch the ground

but my soul does.

I hope you always remember

that time in Florida

when I came home from work

at 2am on our anniversary

to find you sleeping on the couch

I woke you up with flowers in hand.

I will never, ever forget the way you said

oh sweetheart

and held me like i could have been the only thing that mattered.

we kept the flowers all week,

and after you flew home,

I kept them on the counter

even when they were dry

and brown and shedding,

petals like promises,

and I changed the water daily (if i remembered)

hoping to revive dead flowers

and wishing you could come back.

Sometimes the days feel like a train

and I’m running and running

and the wheels turn louder and louder

with those weird bar things that fascinate me

steel on steel on steel

And it’s too loud, I’m going too fast,

and just when I think I’ll be thrown under,

I remember that I was just riding my bike anyway.

You are the moon in my sky

And the only hand to hold mine

You turn my long braids into time lines

past the world and before we both were here

past everyone and everything near

back before the sun could shine

back before you were mine

From London

From Home

From Places Unknown

you held my hand and told me that you and your dad built a model train set together and we sat by the river in the rain

i didn’t let you know i felt sick the whole time because you were so nice and your haircut is so short.

when you sleep, you’re all angles and grace. it’s an odd combination of elbows and eyelashes but it’s lovely.

you laid down in my bed and asked me where it all came from.

framed in red light as we move towards the corner it grows larger while you grow smaller and i hope i can remember the image of you smiling while the projection reflected off your glasses with your hair too long in the back and your jeans always several sizes too big and your black t shirt. your underwear was my favorite color that day.

what if i can’t stop thinking about that day

when you took me to the feminist modern art exhibit at your favorite museum across town

holy ****

and kissed me in the starlight room

and i thought, ******* you are good.

i always liked the chipped bowl best.

i always liked

your crooked teeth

your frayed jeans

your broken boots

and i liked the scarf i made

with the holes

and the strings

and i like when my hair is a mess

and i like when my tights show skin

and i liked your ****** up parts.

because everyone who knows me past my second middle name would tell you that i crash hard and i don’t wear a helmet

it wasn’t so much that you caught me

it was more like i was running sprinting hurdling

and i crashed into you like the world’s lankiest brick wall

but you’re picking up the pieces

i know this is might not be a good thing, but hey, at least you wear a helmet.

continuity

expression

there are others just like you on the

merry, go, round,

stop

motorcyclemotorcyclemotorcycle

whack

you kissed me in the street

before putting on your helmet

earlier you told me that you see too many things to laugh at

and i thought maybe your long legs under the table weren’t such a bad thing

clockparts.com
i fell in love with dali’s ghost

on the day i kissed the 34-mile horizon

i watched his clocks melt away

so i made him a new one and painted it purple sky and yellow sun and lavender clouds and ochre rays

and he filled it with the ace of spades

this isn’t well-crafted surrealism

it’s your story spent

over analysis

of unexpected poetry

pretty words on a pretty page on a pretty day

(****)

i climbed the tree because it was there

and because i need a classical role on my resume

I said darjeeling and masochism,

you said

that sounds like a nice day

Chalkboard

Blindfold

Ripped Jeans

take

off

your

glasses

Getting lost in a city that wears me too well

A man yells and a well-dressed older woman smokes a cigarette

and I turn left on fifth.

If you took a picture of this city,

an instant of stillness

no one would be able to tell if it was falling apart or coming together.

I don’t know how love works.

But I know I left you on a Sunday after spending six months trying to shove the words that escaped me into the dozens of envelopes that you had sent over the last six years.

I don’t know how loves works but I know that Christmas Eve, when you held me and I cried, it was because I was already losing track of your world map hands as you navigated the clams in the soup your brother made.

I don’t know how love works, but I know that over spring break, i bought flowers i knew you wouldn’t even like to say I’m sorry, even though I knew I was just trying to make things better temporarily until I got the courage to say goodbye.

I don’t know how love works, but I know that when you force feed yourself a certain amount of affection, your body starts to reject it. You can only fill up so much artificial substitute for love, like cotton candy filling up my head and grape flavoring spilling out of my mouth all over your bedsheets like the time i was drunk and spilled hot chocolate with marshmallows and you yelled at me like they would never be clean again.

I can’t love a terrarium. I get too frustrated with things I can’t touch. I can’t fill up any more phone calls with rainstorms and giving up.

i think i meant to tell you that i loved you

but instead i told you about a dream i had where you locked me in a room and wouldn’t shut up about your socks.

i think i meant to ask you to kiss me

but instead i asked for a cigarette on your porch even though it was cold out and I wanted to go home.

i think i meant to tell you i trust you

but instead i told you to buy a notebook and fill it with lists so that your mind can work again.

mornings ****. mornings are the worst thing in the entire world. i wake up every day far too aware of your absence in my bed, on the window side. You’d face the wall and let me cuddle up and touch your hair until you fell asleep, snoring. I ******* loved your snoring, and I don’t really understand why. You’d lie down for just a few moments, and then fall asleep mid-sentence, parts of you still awake. You could be snoring and still braiding my hair, or kissing my hands. Sometimes you’d fall asleep on an angle and your breathing would scare me so I’d wake you up just for a second to try and get you to face the right way, but you never remembered in the morning, so I figured you weren't too bothered. when i told you, you said that you wished i were as nice to you when you're awake as i am when you’re asleep.  I wake up wanting to hold you and want to call you and say “love, i’m so so so so so sorry. forget it, let’s try again. one more time,” but you always said I was awful at apologies. i probably am. i don’t know, i haven’t apologized to anyone in a while.

is there a word for the way it feels to cry in front of the Water Lilies in the museum?

is there a word for when your teeth taste like blood from getting punched in the heart?

is there a word for the moment when you say the last words you ever wanted to say to the boy?

there should be.

maybe then I could understand what it takes to tell someone that you hope they wake up feeling alone.

Who I’ve become is someone I respect.

Some days I feel like I’ve spent a quarter of my life waiting for the wrong train.

But I don’t mind the time in between

sometimes i mistake my shadow for my light

but i don’t mind the grey spots in between

i fell asleep where you slept

and dreamt that i fell asleep under the ocean

i knew i’d drown if i didn’t wake up

but i kept telling myself, just a little longer

i wondered if my sister was laughing above the surface

we were at the pool and i dove under

and there were bubbles everywhere

and i realized i couldn’t find my way up

so it turned into the ocean

and i fell asleep

and it reminded me of that time when i was ten and i jumped into the river

and i didn’t think id ever find my way out again

Sometimes I’d just like to get out of my head and get out of my ribbon ribcage and my roadmap wrists.

And I’d like to break the glass of your eyes into the thousand and six pieces of that pickle jar I broke last week in the middle of the street. Your voice sounds the way an old book feels when I first pick it up out of the cardboard box while the sidewalk scolds me for thinking too much. I bet you taste like New Years.

All my favorite people have too much to hold onto.

my mother was born a gardener

and my father became one

through patient snap peas and

angry red tomatoes

he seeded and watered and waited

while my mother grew hibiscus in the mountains

and plums in the shade

i was born a painter

but its tank me years to pick up a paintbrush

and my brother was born a poet

but i sincerely doubt that he’ll ever show it

i mix my paints on my palette of flowers

and my brother goes to meetings at banks

My other attended the only Agricultural High School available to her within a 40 mile radius of her South Philadelphia home. This was not a coincidence.

My father attended the best athletic conference in his affluent suburban community. This was.

She started out watering plants in fast food joints, arranging flowers for junior proms in the poorest neighborhoods of the city. When my father met her, she only ate lettuce and seeds because that was all she could manage to put in her body.

My father kneeled to the ground, saw the soil beneath her fingernails, and fell in love.

I can only love men who garden. I can only be a daughter of the earth because of them.

I don’t like terrariums because they frustrate me. Life trapped behind glass, that I cannot touch, or feel, or smell. I cannot water, I cannot fathom to even slightly disturb their existence, no matter how desperately I want to.

I’m getting my hands ***** touching old soil. I wipe it on my skirt before I touch the sweat on the back of my neck. I’m planting forget-me-nots and basil. I don’t even know if those go together. But I am putting them deep in the ground and it occurs to me that in a few weeks, I might not even remember them. They might die and become some stupid memory, a part of my dinner party story vernacular, Or maybe waiting for them will change me, will allow me to commit as a meditation on earthen peace.

gummy bears and cigarettes

apologies for the time that i’ve spent

falling down your satis to your pit of empathy

because boy, you care far too much for me

far more than i deserve

to temper your acoustic nerve

what if my favorite color was the bruise under your eye?

what if my favorite number was the pace of your smile?

oh oh blank slate boy

the floorboards are cracking and i’m going crazy

your ropes are straining while girls are mistaking

you for anything but a blank slate boy

you’re sewing sleep while i’m sewing valentines

how many hours do you spend chasing he siblime?

oh oh blank slate boy

The snow falls around me

in the peacock window light

the trees wave hello to me

while I find a candle to fight

Just let me catch my breath

we spend time wandering through the towns that our father chose

and we spend days looking for the perfect garden rose

because i’ve seen men who stand behind their father’s grave while they hand a gun to the hand they shake and they wait and they wait and they wait

a woman walks into the street with a gun and a boy walks to school wishing he had one

and we hate and we hate and we hate

I’ve stood at the wall and I chased down the hall your sister ran towards the light

we danced in the morning while my brother was snoring and we held each other tight

I’m learning to travel light. A backpack, a mandolin case, and a water bottle. That’s enough. A black skirt, an extra pair of wool tights, and a teeshirt big enough to sleep in. Headphones.

my sister asks me when and where and why I’m coming and going and leaving and staying

I’m packing up

I’m always packing up

but my suitcases are getting smaller, more efficient, less attached.

I can’t keep track myself

Speaking of the kids in my hometown

we used to walk the traintracks obsessively

like they’d lead us somewhere

like they’d show us something

like the end of the summer was just a bookend parallel line with the river by the library card that promised if i only read enough books i could get out of there and over the moon.

just parallel lines, but they made as much sense as any other way out.

And the gazebo where the high school band played

and I swung on my first date

I write too many poems about my body.

but it’s the only house my spirit knows

and the only movement is my own

I could write you a love poem

or one about the way the kids in my hometown

used to walk the traintracks like they led somewhere

but i’m completely obsessed with this idea of entrapment

that i could be more than skin and bones that i could be made of

ink blotch shoulderblades

ribbon ribcages

clothespin wrists

and ruby lips

that i could abandon myself and get out of this cage

that’s too big or too small or whatever the **** they tell me this week.

For Little One
June, 2012

I want to be a giant girl

with my hair caught in the clouds

and a bird resting on my nose

I want to be twice as small

as the fly resting on the wall

I

I want to watch small men

smoke pipes and sing to themselves

I want to grow too magnificent for the room

and push down the walls with my elbows

and use the chimney as a periscope

the sheer enormity

and when I dance

I want to fell the planetary divide

and taste the milky way

and wear saturn’s rings as jewelry

stars tangled in my braids

and i’d let humans walk across my shoulders

so that they could see the moon

and remember how it feels to be

small, childlike, wondering

and then things might be alright.