I drove dad’s Chevy for the first time one morning
In a storm.
His old, blue, dented, beat-up, ninety-seven Chevy,
Worn tires tractionless on wet asphalt,
Raindrops veiling the windshield like the comforter
That keeps me warm and safe during the nights I
Spend at home, thick and grey with a glint of silver, and
Pintucked stitching littering the middle.
The lines on the road, like the seams of the comforter,
Break evenly and cleanly, stretch on forever.
My knuckles, like little snow-capped mountains,
Gripped the steering wheel as I did the covers during a nightmare.
Dad, on the other hand,
Was as calm as the breeze curling around the trees on
Any day but today;
Relaxed as if the forecast were fine as the
Silk of the duvet.

I drove dad’s Chevy for the first time one Sunday morning
In a storm.
His old, blue, dented, beat-up, ninety-seven Chevy.
In a storm!
Who would have even let me take control
Of this two-ton machine on a sunny day, when
The raindrops didn’t cover the windshield like a blanket,
And the wipers actually helped to push them aside?
When I couldn’t see my scared reflection in the puddles on the road?
When the worn down tires had traction on the asphalt?
I was going thirteen in a thirty-five, and the
Old woman behind me honked her horn at me
To the tune of a song abundant with cursing.
My heart was beating at the speed of the piston’s pumping,
And my knuckles were white on the wheel
Like little snow-capped mountains.
I was inches from the wheel, and I looked over the windshield
Like a kid at an ice cream store, only
My eyes were not filled with hope for a
Rocky road sundae.
Dad, on the other hand,
Was as calm as the patter of the rain on the sunroof;
Relaxed as the trees in their suburban backyards.
I guess it all goes to show you
How much faith my father has in me.
Or,
How stupid and stubborn he can be sometimes.
But aren’t those really just the same things?

They land on the flowers in the garden, and
The purple petals bend under their weight like
Eyelashes with leftover mascara from last night.
Six legs and antennae dance
From stamen to stamen, a kaleidoscope of
Color, and big, bug eyes stare at me
With the black vacancy of their souls.
They are silent predators (of nectar),
Coming from the sky and touching down on their prey
Like vultures swoop down on carrion.
One comes close to me, advancing overhead
And panic in my blood makes my heart beat
As fast as its wings, going up and down.
I put my hand up, palm glistening,
Trying to protect myself from the terrible insect,
The garden monster;
And at last, deflecting from my waving hands,
The butterfly flutters off into the spring air.

You are so kind to me.
You compliment me and tell me I'm pretty.
That I'm funny and that I'm smart.
You say it didn't work because you did something wrong.
That you were to blame in this unhappy ending.
But really I was just afraid that I wasn't good enough for you.

Why don’t I get lullabies anymore?
Why don’t I get someone to tell me that the world will be alright when I wake up in the morning?
When I finally open my eyes after a sleep littered with unsettling dreams
I see hatred. I see garbage, fighting, sadness, and pain.
Am I dreaming the true reality, or are my dreams just coming true?
Even though when I wake up the world is still spinning,
It’s not turning the way it should.

There is a girl sitting alone.
She isn’t perfect but tries so desperately to be
Because that’s what you are.
She picks herself apart for being who she is
But really, she is just waiting
For you to tell her that she deserves someone as good as you.

An ocean poured from the sky, its waves crashing onto the
Umbrella, whose pink and purple polka dots lit the dark, cloudy day.
Together, under the umbrella’s
Safe shell, in the midst of the storm,
They wait on the sidewalk.
Deep puddles form around their rain boots,
Large enough to reflect
The boy’s and the girl’s intertwined hands.
Above, rain hammers the roof
Like bags of marbles opened across the floor,
And the wind snakes through the buildings and streets, hissing.
But the boy and the girl stand smiling,
Paying no heed to the rain or the storm clouds
Or the time or the day or the things they have to do.
Only to each other.
Even as the wind quickens, and the rain lashes the air,
And the sky grows darker, and the air cools,
The pink and purple polka dots of the umbrella
Are unmistakable between the wet city buildings.