we
talked
about
kids

we
will
never
have

what
my
parents
have

fumble with my fork as he tells me he "gets" my depression;
sunday morning church crowd in a diner off the highway.
mumble something about refusing medication.
he applauds me for being "strong"
which has always been the goal,
unattainable as it is.

he says "you're not independent enough.
you're
18
19
20
21 years old.
so grow up,
and pay your own way."

and i say, "yes sir."

and he says, "if you need anything, i'm here."

my face flushes hot with confusion, embarrassment.
small jars of honey on the table, just asking to be stolen.
i fix my gaze to one, as a question falls from my mouth:
"why do you have a book called 'planning ahead: how to write your will?'"



cut back to that cup of coffee
those eggs, bacon, back pain, old age
he says "i won't be here to see you guys have kids."
i feel tears falling, scalding like acid.
*gee dad,
love you too.

we kiss like a swordfight,
sandpaper to silk.

tick
tock
tick
t-

the driver's side door always closes a
split second before the passenger's.

cut to the bar: enveloped in smoke and your arms,
the quiet hum of your shirt against my cheek

close my eyes and the pool table turns to noise-
the red lights become laughter, and i smile.

my back's against invisible glass,
eyes still shut, i feel your voice
sound out above my head
as i stay, tucked under
your chin and
stolen.

you have no idea? oh, really?
well why does your hair smell like that?
whose bobby pins are on your nightstand?
why don't you sleep on the wet spot?

staple your heart to mine,
cold fingers tracing outlines of veins.
a bag of batteries rustling in the hallway,
like so much change in my jacket pocket.

remember the night we had in july?
sapphire, lipstick and sweat.
there's no such thing as a muse, ok?
so don't say i'm yours just yet.

a single light in only black
next to me, a child lies sleeping.
i hear his cries, feel his tears,
but if i wake him, he won't make it.

good poets make you lock eyes with the noose
and call out to your old friend, death.
long time, no see.

you cited a beauty in madness-
the single beam of light cutting
deeply through my synapses.
your hair waved around me while
we held each other, sobbing.

thumbs,
purple while pistachios lay laughing with closed
mouths

i fumble with my fork as my dad  tells me he "gets" my depression
sunday morning church crowd in a ******* barrel just off the interstate
i mumble something about refusing medication
he applauds me for being "strong"
which has always been the goal,
unattainable as that is.
"you're not independent enough.
you're 18
19
20
years old
so grow up
and pay your own bills."

"yes sir."

cut back to that cup of coffee
those eggs, bacon, back pain, old age
"i won't be here to see you guys have kids"
gee dad.
i love you too.

death has never been comfortable for anyone but liars.

or the dying.

the small jars of honey on the table are just asking to be
stolen.