Why am I trying
to fix the trust you broke

I searched
“How to repair
A relationship when trust is broken.”
And all of the websites were from the perspective
of the person who committed the offense,
Not the one who got hurt.
“Apologize profusely, admit what you did, ask for forgiveness, tell them how you’ll change” —

None of this advice was for me.
That’s when I realized that I shouldn’t
Be the one who is looking this up.
This isn’t my offense to pay penance for
No one on the internet told me
It was my job to fix this.
In fact, they all had quite the opposite approach

Then I googled
“How to make a plan to fix a broken relationship”
Same idea, different words
(Because you can’t trust the algorithm, or can you?)
Because I wanted a step-by-step—
A sequential process that I could analyze,
proofread, and formulate perfectly so that everything is pieced back together. and then I’d propose the plan to you and cross my fingers that you agree to it

And yeah, I absolutely should be the one to make the new rules
But as far as fixing what was lost, that has to be on you.
Because you were the one who broke this
You told me blatant lies, often
When I asked if I could trust you.
You make excuses, like
I should be proud that you weren’t worse

I’m not proud
I’m embarrassed
Of you
For myself
For the happiness I thought we were beginning
to bask in

And I’m the one who tries to fix it:
The happiness
Myself
And you
Because I want it back

But I didn’t want it like this.

I am from libraries,

from shiny hardcovers and worn paperbacks.

I am from the neighbor’s squeaky swingset,

Green seats, rusted chains,

The setting of a thousand shared stories and kingdoms.

I am from the cottonwoods,

The soft seeds soaring in the Kansas wind to tickle our noses.

I’m from mega-churches and minivans,

From Celinda’s small town and David’s many neighborhoods.

I’m from private-school indoctrination that kept me “in”

And a hidden identity that kept me “out,”

From bubble-wrapped protective prejudice and a distrust of progress and change.

I’m from the grief of spiritual deconstruction

And the joy of rebirth and new knowing.

I’m from suburban Wichita and lush Ohio valleys and downtown Oklahoma City,

From spicy, hearty chili and soft, sweet cinnamon rolls.

I am from the love and relief in my husband’s embrace,

From the choice to be who I needed when I was younger.

I am the new generation in my family — the safe space in the organized chaos.

I am from the hurt of conformity and the honesty of rebellion.

I flip through the leaves of my literature,

I listen to the leaves of the cottonwoods,

And I reflect and I learn and I accept

That where I’m from is nowhere near as lovely as where I’ll go to next.

As our city breathes its crowded air, a little boy tries to stifle a heaving sob so that his *****-furious father won’t hear his lack of 11-year-old testosterone and teach him another hard lesson about being a man; six miles northeast of the boy, an undergraduate studying to be a teacher breathes deeply with self-satisfaction because eight months ago to the day he made the decision to stop inhaling and exhaling the skunk-smelling substance that dulled his own mind and hurt his chances of sharpening minds younger than his.

The two of them don’t know yet, but each stifled or satisfied breath brings them closer together, and they’ve needed each other for months—after the young man earns a diploma and the young boy earns his first locker: both will teach each other to feel proud; both will motivate each other to grow stronger; both will, unknowingly, lead each other to a resolute vitality without fear or shame or guilt because

both
will
breathe

and feel whole
and feel empowered
and feel strong  
and feel ready

to breathe wonderfully deep again and again and again.

the true Great Teacher
lets you see
who you are

Rather than
what one book says
you should be

Since when
was my reputation
more important
than my happiness?

Since when
were your morals
more significant
than my peace of mind?

And since when
did you get to decide
how my character
would develop?

please!
i wish you would expose me
for the brave comment
for the snide remark
for the gentle mention
for the valiant mistake
that i am.

It’s hard
to make people
empowered

if you don’t
make people
valued and loved
first

i think
the beds in heaven
will be the same
shade of tender pink
as the peonies
you surprised
my restlessly happy heart
with tonight.

and when i lie down  
in the beds of heaven,
i think
my restfully blissful heart
will crave
my sweeter,
softer,
earthly gift.

we finally went swimming today,
(our first time
in two years)
and the whole time just felt
like a metaphor of
us—

you flipped me,
dunked me,
grabbed me underwater,
told me to clutch
“that cute little nose”
and hold my breath—

so that i could be
brave enough to try
something exciting
that i was afraid of.

you do this every day;
today,
in the water,

it was much more clear.

this is the hardest thing
letting someone else have
so much control
over my heart
because i love him

this is the best thing
letting someone else have
so much tenderness
for my heart
because i love him

i thought i loved to be alone.
by myself was where i stood steadfastly

but that changed
when we first nervously
drove to a bookstore
together
to browse
and talk
and finally feel
better about ourselves

i had no idea how much
i’d grow
or how much
i’d grow you

i thought i preferred to be alone
but now
i’m wilted without you near

i’m jealous of me
from an hour ago—
because i was the one
who got to be with you
an hour ago,

and now i’m not.

i’m jealous of me
from an hour ago—
because you kissed my nose
and you held me so close
an hour ago,

...
so
can we hang out tonight?

it’s official—
i hate being alone.
this isn’t a poem
but
it’s words
i needed to say

why is it so immeasurably
heart cracking
to imagine you
loving someone
else before you
even knew me

do you ever think
about her or
them
or
are we,
we two,
the only two you imagine?

you wrote of pain
you wrote of deep pain
you wrote of lust
of deeper love

have i penetrated
you quite as thoroughly?

(or am i selfish for asking)

maybe i don't have answers
but at least now
i'm asking questions

i don't know if i'm verbally
processing or if i just want
to talk about myself some more

it’s clumsy
it’s clammy
but it’s finally something

when you fall in love,
you start to protect your lover —
you learn how to keep him safe from his heartache and his hurt.
you become his wall of happiness,
protection from unwanted intruders,

and he is already protecting you.
he has learned to defend you
against predators and cannibals
and men who lurk in shadows.
he becomes your wall of safety,
protection from unwanted intruders,

but sooner or later
love teaches him.
he learns his real job :
to protect you
from yourself.

so he destroys the doubts
and he exiles the pain
and he uproots theshameandguiltandfear
from within the walls
of your secret garden —

and he quietly grows

and he tenderly nurtures

your contentment within yourself.


then without warning
the april sun shines
he opens wide the garden gates —
the walls have been long torn down —

and your gardener gently whispers :

it’s time for you
to come
and enjoy your own paradise lost

i have let my life pass
me by without asking for a
                                                    stop.
the bus —
crowded with hardened men
crying, helpless children
laughing, graceful women
drifting — doesn’t
                                                    stop.­
every light glimmers by—green—
illuminating my path to growth,
but my red hair
red blood
red heart
ignite the invite to
                                                    stop.

so i pull the cord
i interrupt the glares
i stumble out of the bustling confusion
i light onto solid ground

and i, beamingly,
ask myself if this is a
                                                    stop
                                                               or
a start

when you said
i love you
it was a dizzying accident—

a crashing wave—
leaving bubbles of a nervous laugh
and a glimmering embrace.

your gaze rapidly flashed
down, and i hid
my wonder-flooded face—

in the surge of one moment,

we were too
dazed to dive into the surf
of that torrential magnificent.

everyone wants to feel wanted
and tonight i did
you wanted me and now
i’m yours yours yours

for keeps
for kicks
for ***** and giggles
for real
for ever
forever

"thank you for today"
i told him because he loved on me

he flooded my day with his sunshine
rare and raw and radiant

so i reflected his beams and thanked him
and the whole world basked in our glow

i thanked him for loving my present moment, and we shared the luminous gift

lately i look so sad
but i write with such hope
and i am afraid to know
which part of me i can trust
my body or my mind

i stumble back to my confusion
of blankets and realize
i'm not even certain
if my heart lies
anywhere in the great jumble

Here I am, an Educator, new-formed
And on the verge of ideas and thoughts
That I’m told are too lofty, too grand, for their
Purposes of having students graduate at Funding’s Earliest
Convenience. Administrative charms
Have already told me not to display
Myself and my passions with honesty. I must teach
Like I am greater than them,
Like I approach our stories each
Day with a very very serious
Focus on structure and style and each
Incredibly important
Comma. But I know the Truth.
The Truth is that the richest
I’ve ever felt was when my educational harvest
Had received its lowest return. I first thought, “How shall
I punish? How shall I repay
Your bad behavior's damage with more damage? Your
Misbehavior doesn’t deserve my toil;
Your disrespect was just as bad as their
Records said it would be!” But then my reason
For anger crumbled, and I let love strengthen
My tired and trodden heart, as
I decided to speak to my students with the honesty their
Lives often lack from authority. Intentionality, Honesty, Truth. No amount of years
Will change what I’ve learned in Year Zero: to let love increase.

you give
a lot more
likes on my selfie

than you
give to my
attentive words.

i get
a bit more
sense of my self-fee--

thank you--
now i know
what you preferred

have you ever noticed that you never
see famous female poets who look
like marilyn or nicki or ari?

even the girls today whose words
are celebrated can't sell their rhymes
without selling their bodies.

i guess the new femme fatale
might be less feminist than i thought:
when your looks can ****, they ******
your ideas.

when your lips pucker like roses
and your body is angelic--
we let you take our libidos to heaven
but not our minds.

i don't wish to be invisible
but i wish they'd never seen me
or heard my voice.

i wish to be known and i guess
also to be loved
without anyone ascribing a sense
of beautiful or ugly to me.

please!
i wish you would expose me
for the brave comment
for the snide remark
for the gentle mention
for the valiant mistake
that i am.

but--stop! don't do it,
my pretty face is my shield
and if i weren't so scared
i would've already destroyed it.
i would've made my invisible visible
and you would all see what i am,
really.

don't do it

i wish i could do it for myself:
to be naked but not afraid

frightened about addictions--
mine feel far less dark
because they blaze from a white
screen

lower the brightness. i can't
bear to feel my eyes
dissolving like my dull white
scream