How do you tell anyone
that the baby you have inside
is the son or daughter
of a man with a wife?

You don’t.
You take the bus or the train
to a grey building and you
ignore the names and yelling
and you sign the forms and
close your eyes.

You don’t tell anyone.
Except him.

And he has the ***** to tell you
it was a good thing you knew
what to do without him.

It was for just an instant, but I felt the way
two hungry eyes watched me sway.

The heat of the room hid my blush,
but your cheeks glowed pink and lush.

Possessed, and desiring to be a dream
I danced intending to extend the fantasy theme.

I was on stage performing my long practiced swing
like a flower with petals blooming in the spring.

Coming alive, I choreographed every step of my form,
and did not for a second feel your eyes, from me, torn.

In late January,
you walked into my life
and for the briefest second

I felt like a flower blooming.

Each petal folding backwards,
falling softly to expose me
warming from the inside out.

The first thing you said to me
was to name a Morpho in flight,
with the name I would choose for him.

That was when I felt my ice melting
and know yours did too,
in your easy smile and black curls.  

I was smitten from the moment that we met,
and I pray tonight that today will not be the last.

I’ve got no right and of that I’m very well aware, that I should have a say in how you wear your hair. That I shouldn’t think it looks the nicest after you’ve showered, when it’s darker and the lines of your combs teeth leave neat rows in your styled way.  

Or maybe that I love you when you’ve shaved, but also grizzly bear you reminds me it’s the weekend. When you're ruff, I know there are a few more precious hours in the Saturday and Sundays on the calendar.

I won’t ever tell you that your grey tee shirt is my favorite of your limited wardrobe, and that you in my favorite color—it’s blue if you  were wondering, though I'm sure you already know— makes my head swoon for a bit. When you wear a button up, and leave it un-tucked, I think about the white vee neck beneath and how I can see it peeking out from beneath your collar.  

I love the way your suit jacket makes you stand up straighter, and how your suit pants when you sit reveal those brown socks you always wear with your wingtips. I even love those blue jeans (I think they’re your only pair) that aren’t stylish, but soft and comfortable. And the brown belt with the cracking leather and brass buckle you always play with when you’re laying on the floor with me, watching nonsense tv at the end of a day. I love your sweatpants, and the way that when you lie on your side, your boxer band shows like a tease. I like the way you never fix it, but it fixates me.

I noticed today how tall you look when you stand at the cash register in the grocery store. I swear I wasn’t trying to, it's just that I looked up and there you were in your suit and tie and I was caught.

I’m so sorry that when you take your glasses off I picture you sleeping on the pillow beside me.

And I’m so sorry that sometimes when I can’t sleep, I wrap my arms around myself and put a pillow against my back. I put my hand across my bare skin, on my hip, and I pretend you’re there. I pretend we’re just sleeping, nothing else. There’s time for that too, but I can’t quite articulate that yet.

Anyway, you’re how I sleep on sleepless nights, or at least the dream of you. That’s why I noticed how tall you are, when you were standing in line. Because I was imagining how you would fit perfectly behind me when I was asleep against my pillow tonight.

The trick? My friend, I shall tell you the trick.

Forget the dream. Forget the dream, and mention it to no one. Lock it in the drawer with all the others, the ones you never tell, even when you’re drunk. Because those dreams are yours, and for a girl who wears her feelings on her face, you’ve got to have something to keep hidden away. So let it be the dreams. The dreams you wish were reality, with all your heart. The ones that make you sad to be awake, that you think about all day long. That you create stories from, or poems in the middle of the night. The dreams that drive you crazy with the unknown, the imagined.

Keep them back, because to unlock that drawer and spill the secrets held within is to open a pandora’s box you’ll never be able to close again.

People write letters full
of heartache
or lace
or moonlight.  

Sometimes all three.

I can’t really tell you what they all say
but as the envelope splits
I feel each voice spilling out into
my hands, into the air.

I dreamt we kissed.

It wasn’t anything cinematic,
only that our heads were bent
in conversation,
and you pressed your lips to mine.

It was cold, the kiss.
And I felt the pressure in my sleep.

The pressure pulling us together,
the sensation of your lips on me,
and the stress when waking
that it was all a dream.

Brown sneakers kicked off
haphazardly between the wall and desk
look like you stepped from them
and into my bed,
as you pulled my cotton dress over head
and I worked the catch on your belt.

Sheets twisted and blankets un-tucked
illustrate in simplest truth
the way we tossed and turned all night
until harsh song roused us from sleep
as I kissed your shoulder,
and you played with the dimples in my back.

The way your jeans lie
on the back of the chair,
thrown there this morning
in an attempt to clean up last night,
as we slept past alarms
and said good morning too long.

Your red toothbrush rests
on the bathroom counter,
a blob of calcified tooth paste in the sink
marks where you forget to run water
as I applied mascara
and you tied your tie.

Keys fished from pockets
lock the front door as we exit
sealing the night behind us
in the tiny space where we closed our eyes
as you told me secrets
and I opened my lips to capture them.

In the busy station Men and Women,
sit motionless, like statues curled in on themselves,
their bodies bent and twisted in, on the long benches
grotesquely alone.

They are wrapped in the protective cloak
of Honey, don’t stare
or That poor soul…mind dear, not too close.

Hours go on,
counted down on the great white face of time
keepings trains on track and men on schedule.  

What is it, to walk among the living dead?

Fallen angels with broken wings,
tucked beneath them,
silently waiting in the stillness of the busy hall.

All at once I pity and envy you,
when you talk about
your town halls and 4th of July's.
When you know the streets, every
building and who lives there.

Small town America.

Math and Mouth, are so easily confused,
when I'm speaking to you.

I want to say Math, but my eyes on your Mouth
make the vowels all switched about.

So I say the wrong thing about my Mouth Final,
and I pray to god that no one noticed.

But I have a strange feeling, that you did,
because your lips twitched.

I didn't like her as soon as I met her.
She'd known you an hour, and said your name wrong.
But she was pretty and little, and blonde.
You smiled, and charmed, and I rolled my eyes.

For Christ sake.

While you were out for an hour or two,
I knocked on M's door with a bottle of Sprite
from the vending machine downstairs.

Let's toast.

I unscrewed the lid and she uncorked the bottle.
She didn't ask why, just nodded and agreed.

**** yes.

Fizz, fizz. Glug, glug.

There's a mug in my hand, and I'm drinking it up.
Tastes like sweet soda, not at all like wine.
We're sitting in silence, when I start telling M
I don't mind, really I don't.

At least you're over him.

She pours, and I swallow,
the bubbles pop in my mouth.  

I hear you come home, little blondie in tow.

Have a nice night?

I ask loudly, standing too close.
You're toeing your shoes off, and I realize we're alone
in your room.

Go for it!

The wine whispers, urging me on.

Can I help you? I'm trying to change.

I want to do something, but what?
I'm scared you'll smell the sugary alcohol on my breath,
and dismiss whatever I do as a buzzed regret.
But I wouldn't regret it, what I see in my head.
I would go to you. I'd kiss you and kiss you,
till the wine wears off, and my lips are red
and a little bit raw.

Jesus.

That's what I would do.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to taste Sprite again,
and not feel the humid air against my skin,
or feel lighter just by the bubbles themselves.

Because when we mix it, on Friday nights,
with your secret wine, hidden in the shoe box,
it's a perfect time.

Knock on  my door,
when the wardens not here.

I swear I'd let you in,
let you turn me inside out. .

I swear we could do anything,
but right now you're nowhere.

Knock on my door,
before the warden gets here.

I just wanted to grab you by the shoulders...
shake you?kiss you?

Hell, I don't know.

All I know for sure,
is that you were standing there,
in your pajama's saying goodnight instead of staying
and I just want to do *something

Every time that dam song
comes on, I'm back in the car
with you.

We're driving, and driving,
because you've just turned 18,
and you can stay out past midnight.

We get hot chocolates from McDonalds,
and my legs tucked under me,
my high heels from dinner kicked off.

It's November, and we're just kids
playing at being adults, in your borrowed
Honda and our cocktail dresses.

Remember this, someone says from
the backseat, every time you hear this song,
but she doesn't know I will.

I can remember that night so clearly,
so well, but the irony is, I can't really
remember you at all.

Hardback books, with spines that crack.
Something to hold on to.

New socks fresh from packaging,
that make the carpet feel like cloud.

Laughing by myself,
or with you.

Weak coffee that tastes like water,
but brings me to life.

Umbrellas because you never know,
you might need one.

Clean sheets against bare legs,
and damp hair on the pillowcase.

Mason jars with lemonade,
and headaches.

I write because it's easier to let
my imagination out on a screen,
then from my mouth.
I write because I can't tell you,
to your face.
I write because I know it isn't
right, to keep these things inside.
I write because strangers will see,
but you'll never read my poems.

She called me Easter Sunday, right before mass.
I took the call in the dorm hallway, half listening.

Say an extra prayer, she told me,
I'm gonna be a parent.

Little one, I'll always remember how it felt,
when your mommy told me about you.

I love you already.

Sometimes I find myself  wishing
my cell phone wasn't my alarm clock,
and that I didn't have a class
in the morning.
That the screen go black for a few,
uninterrupted, hours and
have the peace of mind that being
away from you would give me.

I wish I could tell you,
how everyone liked
the last little story,
I dreamt about us.

But you see, if I do,
then I'd have to wake
you up.

These days, I find myself singing
all those sad songs from musicals.
You know the ones, with the lyrics
that sneak up behind every line,
and melt something away.

If anyone asks me what
I’m listening to, I’d lie and tell them
it’s so-and-so’s new album,
because truth is I wouldn’t want
them to know it’s

*On My Own

I want to fall into the room with you,
pulling at our jeans and tee shirts
until we’re in nothing but our
white cotton underwear.

I want to forget about light switches,
cell phones, and my breathing.


I want you to have trouble with my bra,
fingers clumsy with the clasp.
You’ll mutter Jesus Christ,
and I’ll smile against your lips.

I want you to tangle your hands, in my curls
and I’ll spread my palms across your back,
mapping from your shoulders to your ***.

I want to run my hands down your
chest and see if your stomach tenses
when my fingers meet your boxer band.

I want to know the noises you’d make,
and see your face, when we fall together
into your twin bed, in nothing.

All I wanted was for you to not be you,
and me to not be me,
and for us to be another pair.

A boy and a girl,
who didn't look at each other,
like we did.

I wished I could be her,
and that you could be him,
and that we could be others.

The Neighbors are having a party again,
I can hear the laughter, and dull thuds of
music thru the wall.

I think about texting to you, to tell you it all,
but then I remember I'm trying to kick the habit,
go cold turkey.

The Neighbors are having a party again,
and I can hear how quiet my room is,
alone.

but when you ask if I ever write about you...

I get this rush, and I think,
about how you would blush,
if you knew what I write about us.

If you're, so hell bent on convincing me
it's all in my own head,
then how come every time
I lift my eyes,
you're already looking at me?

Lean a little closer now,
that’s it. Just so that our faces
are close enough that I can see
your eyelashes. Orange.

The table’s small, we’re barely
in the booth. Together at the end,
one on either side, long legs
stretch into the empty restaurant.

Our friend’s talk, and I lean in.  
You lean your head in too, to hear
the joke or story they’re telling. It’s
so familiar, but important somehow.  

Something’s said and we all laugh, normal routine.
You look at me, and I to you. Reactionary. Should we
—not anymore—yet still we do.

You’re wearing that gray shirt, the one that folds right
at the collarbone. I notice; I don’t mean to.
Your cheeks are white and smooth.

I’m wearing my blue jeans, the ones I that,
I know, are a bit too tight.
But I like that about them. I’d never admit it,
but I like the way they cling to me.

So lean in closer, I stay right there,
elbows perched, head turned. Long hair,
tucked behind my ears because
that’s how Mom made me wear it.

Comfortable, you touch my arm, but it’s measured out,
scaled down. You’re too careful now. Every word
a deliberate pace. It’s dangerous when two killers know,
the other’s preferred poison of taste.

But there are things you can’t control,
like when we’re sitting, at the booth’s end,
shoulder to shoulder, turned to our friends.

When we look, as look we always do,
I notice your seconds glance to my smile—
but it’s not my smile you’re looking to.

Saints have lips, and Holy Palmers too, I want to say,
but just for an instant, before I realize how
absurd it would be, quoting Shakespeare to you.

The check arrives and the bill is paid.
There’s no more time that glasses of water can buy.

The gang of us unfold from our little corner booth,
and out the door we go. Leaving behind us nothing
but crumpled napkins and  a salt shaker overturned.

Are boys still mean, to girls they like?*
Or is that just a lie, that Mommy's and Daddy's tell,
when Tommy pulls your braid too hard, or Joey says you smell?

( I )
This has got to stop,
this has got to end.

I can't go on holding my breath,
every time you walk past and
brush my hand.

Suffocating in an empty room.

It's got to stop, but oh Christ,
I'm the last person who will ask it to.

( II )
If You're Wondering
Yes.
I do still jump when
our knees, or socks,
touch.
Goes straight thru me
like a bolt of electric
shock.
And I like it very much.

I really, really hate that I let you in.

That I let your gap-toothed smile,
with your cocky grin, become my favorite
after-school routine.

I really, really hate that I let you in.

That I let your long, thin, body
capture my attention, and imagination,
in the middle of the day--or night.

I really, really hate that I let you in.

The cold metal in her hand,
felt fine.
Loud music, swaying bodies,
bright light in the cramped kitchen.
Just one, to calm the nerves.

Crack went the tab as she broke
the seal.
It tasted yellow, and she waited
for a shame that never came.
That's not so bad...

She brought the can to her lips again,
and saw his orange face.
He isn't here, she reminded herself
as the yellow washed away the face of her
orange man.

( I )
I look at you, and I
imagine him between the sheets
in the middle of the night, when I can't sleep,
I close my eyes and feel
long, white, legs wrapped around me.

I don't know what it feels like to have
you pressed against my back
but every time our knees brush or hands touch I
imagine him between the sheets.

( II )
Grey shirt,
that doesn’t quite cover his side...
just a enough to catch your eye.

White skin,
the most you've seen of him...
draws your attention in.

Stop it,
you beg yourself as you look...
just once again.

Remind yourself,
that friends don’t  look, at friends
like this.

Brown leather,
fingers toy with his belt buckle...
you swallow.