what it must feel like
to be the moon:
forever and ever away from your love;
to know full well that
you won't ever get any closer:
you can't ever touch her..

... yet, you look upon her without end.

I keep having dreams
about you, where your
face is hidden by the brim
of an oily hat, there are dozens
of pictures scattered across a
burlap armchair and even
though we are inside, I can
see these giant oil rigs out
in the pasture, through
the walls that hide nothing
(not even you),
and I am fighting to stay
awake, reaching for your
hand and relieved when
you don't pull away
I've been seeing your name
everywhere, on billboards
and street signs, branded
diesel trucks, stamped on
bumpers and endorsed on
checks--

what the hell am I supposed to be praying for?

oh, he came in the back door
in a rush of warm wind
without much entrance, like
when you pull a pan from the
oven--he slides across the rack
and sets up on the stove,  
sat at my table and delicately
touched my hands, not
much precedence for
falling in love, so I
wanted to tell him
everything. But
most of the time he'd
kick up on my knees
spread his calves out
on my thighs and let
Kate curl up in the
middle--I'd just
go silent with the
overwhelming urge
to rub his shins and
smile.


how much of me is the old me
how many girls still feel the hands
of other men? he says move on
and I want to tell him that every
blue ford makes my palms sweat
that I'm only waiting on God,
for his for sure, a divine yes
that even if it's no longer between
the three of us, and it's just him
and some girl named Savannah or Cassie-May
I'll wait as long as I need to for the blessed answer
because he thinks he's pointless and I think he's

beautiful.