my memory of you
of us
of me
now seems like a watercolored painting.
a messy canvas
in which the colors are all blending together.
Yet it is still a bright one
with reds and oranges
just like my dress
the one that you loved
the one that you took off of me with your  mouth
you hands barley touching me
yet I craved them
I craved to be in that  small warm space
between your breath and my skin.

Now
we are
only what we were:
A beautiful painting.

Every now and then
I take the painting out
dust it off
hang it up.
I hang it up on  the various walls in my new home.
The yellow wall in my living room
The lilac walls of my bedroom.
I cannot  seem to find a place for it.
In my memory it shall stay.

In my memory is where
your strong hands
your tender smell
your beautiful face
your energy
that shook me
that took me
for the ride of my young life
shall stay.

I made chicken soup in August.

The timing is terrible, but
you should still try a bowl.

When you go home,
tell your parents what I said:

You look better
in a prom dress
then you ever could
in a wedding gown.

Let's bury this corpse
underneath a church
hearse and all.

If you steal a carnation
to hang like an icicle
in your bedroom,
I'll never tell a soul.

Our war kept us safe
from the dungeons
of autonomous thought.

Now every time I step outside,
my summer skin feels like winter.

I want to tell you about time, how strangely
it behaves when you haven't got much of it left:
after 60 say, or 70, when you'd think it would

find itself squeezed so hard that like melting
ice it would surely begin to shrink, each day
looking smaller and smaller - well, it's not so.

The rules change, a single hour can grow huge
and quiet, full of reflections like an old river,
its slow-turning eddies and whirls showing you

every face of your life in a fluid design -
your children for instance, how you see them
deepened and changed, not merely by age, but by

time itself, its wide and luminous eye; and you
realise at last that your every gift to them - love,
your very life, should they need it - will not

and cannot come back; it wasn't a gift at all
but a borrowing, a baton for them to pass on in
their turn. Look, there they are in this

shimmering distance, rushing through their kind
of time, moving faster than you yet not catching up.
You're alone. And slowly you begin to discern

the queer outline of what's to come: the bend in
the river beyond which, moving steadily, head up
(you hope), you will simply vanish from sight.

Blank slate: To triumph or tarnish? Chalk lines prove curious.

John Keats
John Keats
John
Please put your scarf on.

You took you away from me,
Now me is all I have
But all I want is you, you see
And to give you all of me.

I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.