I'm sorry I called you a pompous conservative,
and I'm sorry I'm not.

I'm sorry my focus is not on your intellectually cultured
examples of real life moments -
your 1988 Mercury Tracer taking its last gulp
of oxygen,
how nothing pans out to be,
your narrow expectations of others.

I'm sorry I don't fit in that canister.  

I'm sorry that others do not gravitate to
your beck and call.
your call is imperious.

I'm sorry my integrity flows in me,
rather than outwards.
I've never been one to exhibit my prizes.

(I'll just write about your buzzing blurbs
and your pick up sticks that amount to
your arrogance and pride.)

I'm sorry I'm a target
and my voice box turns into knots
when I turn the volume up.

I'm sorry that when I find nerves and pulses,
my body wants to notify you that you are
a *****.

I am sorry that I didn't.

If time is a convincing illusion, then as I am writing this,
you are reading it; you are remembering me years after
we have spoken last, and I am noticing you for the first time.

I'm a young woman waking up in an apartment in Albany,
New York, realizing that I am finally broken enough to fix,
and an East Boston moppet in ***** pink overalls, riding
Big Wheels through the sprinklers with a boy named John Henry.

You're delivering newspapers on a cold New Hampshire morning.
I am falling asleep wondering if you could possibly love me.
You are saying that you do. You are stardust, and I am long gone.

Robert comes in and tells me about how a bunch of his classmates killed his teacher
It was a freak accident
He says her baby died too
His eyes are deep brown wells
That drain when he is confused

I don’t understand
So I call his school

It was raining
A truck carrying steel poles for construction
Lost one on the road

At the same time that she never saw it coming
She saw it coming

I ask him why he thought that
And he tells me that he goes to the Freak School
And freaks have accidents all the time

When steel meets steel
There is always a fire
Always a spark
Always pressure
Snapping
Grinding
Melting to make harder

The process of building is violent

When he is upset he smashes things
Maybe in the same way people who want to learn
Take things apart

It is in the putting back together
The we understand what it is to be whole

He smashes his own head through a wall
So I hold him violently
His head hits mine and my nose bleeds

Every fight I have ever been in
My nose has bled

With my arms around him
I slide his boots off with my feet

His feet are large
He lumbers with them

I hold him as still
As I can

He hits his head again
Maybe so someone will
Put it back together

He says
Why is Emily so mean to me?
Sisters are just supposed to love their brothers
Sisters are just supposed to love their brothers

I call him Bootsie
Tell him I love him
Though I am squeezing him so hard
He passes out

He apologizes two days later
I tell him
Brothers are always supposed to forgive their brothers

I toast to him in my head

Here’s to becoming whole

Walking through a field of kale
Jane in front and you following behind
brushing on your hands over

the dew damp leaves
breathing in the morning air
she looking around

in case the farmer
or one of his farmhands
sees you wander

through the tall kale
you notice she has a slight wiggle
as she walks ahead

not intentional
not like some of the girls at school
you put on the wiggling hips

to attract the boy’s searching eyes
it’s just a natural movement
and you watch and take in

the decisive tread she makes
maybe in fear of mouse
or just cautious of doing damage

to the kale’s green stems
then she pauses and turns around
facing you and says

I come here sometimes
and sit amongst the kale
just to be alone and away

from the pressures
and eyes of others
you nod and say

it gets like that sometimes
and as you speak
your eyes move over her face

and at her eyes
and the way her hair
is neatly brushed

and her lips parted slightly
as if about to speak
mother warmed me of boys

she says looking over your shoulder
at the farm beyond
she says they’re not to be trusted

then she pauses
and looks you in the eyes
and oh you mutter inwardly

the way she looks
the way her eyes
move over me like an artist’s brush

and you sense
a kiss waiting to happen
lips paused to press

tongues ready to explore
each other’s orifice
warm and wet

but nothing happens
and you both walk on
through the dew damp kale

hoping for another time
another fresh dawn
another sexier now.