I am up so late
the Yankees fans next door
screaming through the cinder blocks.
Infected all over. I am
exhausted and done with this.
I would  like to go shoe shopping,
but there is 5.00 to my name.
I spent it all on medicine
for this sad little heart.

I lock my door at night because I’m scared
you’ll sneak in quietly and kiss me on the forehead
or traipse in with the morning and bring me coffee.

I wouldn’t put it past you,

the way you smile when you look at me.
Put your arm around me in public,
and offer me your milk when I run out.
You tell me I’m such a sweetie pie, you can’t get over it.
but you don’t know me, and you don’t ask questions.
I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to hear another cutsey nickname
and if you tickle me one more time I swear I’ll
break your ******* nose.

I’m trying to tell you, to warn you
“No, I’m not a sweetie pie, you’ll find out soon enough”
you’re just not enough, and you’ll find out soon
It’s like you’re afraid to break me when I let you kiss me.

Break me, please.

I’m just dying for some danger, for that boy from Ohio.
You hold me good at night but a bad girl can’t live on snuggles alone.
Seriously.
I would sass you until you put your hands on me,
but you're not worth the effort.
Nothing is intense or brave. You are not an adventure.

This is happening more and more.
It’s ungodly early and we’re tripping on bricks
a pack of feckless teenagers still.
That never changed.
The tall one, skinny with rosy cheeks
and the eyes of a fighter
is holding loosely onto my hand
his nose won’t stop bleeding.

We follow the broad intimidating one
in a red sox hat,
he’s punching every stop sign we pass
and just hollering
how we’ll always stick together
you don’t mess with family
(I’ve known them all for three weeks)
his accent is getting thicker through his swollen lip.

In the rear the shorter one, but still much taller than me,
his hair stuck up in all directions
is still getting his breath back from that sock to the stomach.

We all love that frozen moment, when first punch turns to full on brawl.
Peter says even if you get hit, at least you’re feeling something.
We all taste like bourbon, cause this is the South now.

I’m draggin’ them home in my favorite blue skirt,
two heads shorter at least.
Saying, soon we’ll be home boys, I’ll fix you up then.
Because they’ll fight for me, I fight for them.
Saying stop punching public property, Paul and
Stevie, I’ve got you, don’t cry
The Pats are on tomorrow boys, and we’ve all got work to do.
just a little longer

I find family where I can these days.

The storm came in with a face in the clouds
looked like old father time.
Or God leading the way.
Turned the sky yellow and the trees blue.
Very near got blown away watching
that tree trunk split, how it groaned
and smashed down onto metal bent,
road blocked
and I hollered along. I stomped and soaked
in the shards of glass raining down to the street
hiding under trees in the garden like an animal
letting the vast plane of nature assimilate
feeling my roots be put down into the ground
I am this screaming wind, clean and new, angry and vengeful
like I was rained down from the clouds myself.

This place is so quickly home
in my cinder block palace
the leaky sink, the naked boy in the bed
across from mine.
I am triumphantly queen of these gravel-roofed blocks
dragged back, bladder bursting
to my little kingdom.
my people wait up in the hallways
they are dazed and blurry eyed
the 4 am incarnations
of what we promised ourselves we’d never be.
curled up in corners
shivering away from reality.
I have conquered nothing
but my parent’s expectations.

She might be a woman, bronzed face turned upward
worshiping in a small pool of dappled sunlight.
But she is most like a girl still
carrying along a pink blanket,
engrossed in her newest book,
legs crossed sitting on the porch in a
mauve and lace sundress.
The other colors of the world,
she fits into them, she wears them well.

The green of the trees in its last intensity,
beginning the parched death into the fall.
The blessing of a blue sky,
and the belladonna lilies have reached up
announcing the end of summer
(bliss, contentment, inherent joy of living)
with their bare stems and slip of pink.

The quiet charm of summer afternoons
in company with the restless spirit autumn brings
she sits to wait, remember, cherish the summer.
The cold will be on her soon.

The yellow ones
buttery soft
floating on tiny wings
hanging on new tendrils
Out of the corner of my eye
one rests and keeps me company

I’m sitting in the dirt
planting the garden up new

another sits to drink

I wash my naked feet

There are rainbows in the sunlight
and in the dirt under my nails

the brightness blinks through
my eyelashes damp

four summers ago
I suppose it was that long
that I didn’t watch the
butterflies
alone.