Dancing with detachment,
I watch the still planes below as I leave.
For just as I can't help the type of blood
that runs over my bones,
I have inherited my mothers cold feet.

Dancing with detachment,
As I wrap my arms around my grandmother
I feel her stiff shoulders shift,
see her skin as too big of bracelets around her wrists,
and wonder where her time went.

Dancing with detachment,
I'm standing in the front yard of my old house,
in the space where I accidentally grew up.
I go inside to climb the staircase that
spills into my parents empty bedroom.
And just as Win Butler once said,
I wonder what ever happened to them.

To be away in airplanes
where the blur between
the sky and the sea
is the most comforting place to be.
I'm sorry I can't be there.
You know that my insides
will press against my skin
harder and harder and
I will try to hold it all in.
But I burst apart, if I am to remain so still.
Maybe the day we stay, and remain,
the sun and the moon will collide.

If I wrote a poem about feminism,
would you assume that I'm a woman?

I have dirt on my hands,
tears in my shoes,
sweat on my forehead,
and a soreness in my shoulders
from a day in the field.

I broke my thumb during the game,
decide to hang with the guys tonight,
wear a cleanly pressed button-down,
order a couple of beers,
and take **** from no one.

I go to work at the firm
wearing a nicely tailored suit,
present myself unapologetically,
make a living for myself,
and have no children.

I am Woman.

You came at me like a ride down a waterslide.
No knowledge of which way this were to go,
I tunneled and turned and soaked myself in something
I now need over and over again.

It is on the open Midwest roads
the names of the states fade away,
as it really does all look the same.

Sunlight seems to be pouring in
from every window of our worn out Honda minivan.
The electric doors never stop rattling,
as the tires beat across these soft grey roads.

Inside this vessel I lay horizontal across the last row of seats;
all to myself, it was my cubby hole of the world,
that encased so many memories.
It is now just a place in my mind,
but at palace at that.

I am 14 years old and have "borrowed" my sisters iPod.
I shuffle through old Jason Mraz songs,
and stare at my bare feet pressed flat against the window above me.

I watch the clouds as they seem to be going in between my toes,
and once again feel the openness of this place,
my home, sink into my bones.
I think back to that last family road trip,
And I know I never left.

I know I am alive by the shake of my bones
from the vibrations in the airport.
The only touch I yearn to feel
is my back against the wall of sun coated windows.
I slide my way down,
and let the dust particles in the sun beams comfort me.

I know I am already dead,
because how nice would it be
if these vibrations broke the glass into thousands
of tiny blades against my shoulders
and hot air engulfed me,
so I was ****** away with the airplanes.

And somewhere in between all this,
I remember the light on your skin,
and how it fills me.
How you helped me to bury the clouds
of some unwelcome memories.
And the only reason I am here
leaning against the warmed, solid glass,
is because you've made the skies clear.

Pack up your mountains and hold them close.
You've seen what can be done
to break entire ranges to the ground.

Build your mountains back up in a new place
and know that they show for themselves,
how great and free they can be.

I miss the sticky heat
between the prairies
pressing on my skin and my lungs.
Dust flutters in just the
sunny parts of your home.
The homesickness I feel
between all of my insides
when I think of my childhood,
when I want to be everywhere at once,
brings to life a solid part of a dream.
I hang white curtains
as to not shut out the sunlight completely.
At least I know, this time,
the dust has reached all parts of the old home.

Morning white smooths into light blue,
the light blue deepens to azure in the afternoon.
A touch of orange, a hint of red, sudden explosion.
Now between the clouds, as the sun goes down,
a brush of lavender quickly thickens to maroon.
A blanket of black comes to fill it all in,
and just as we thought the Earth could quiet down,
the lights in the sky illuminate the space to do it all again.

So alone am I
the criminal behind my closet door,
is starting to feel remorse.
I come up with crazy situations in my head,
of myself, in the presence of friends.
My screams have filled the cracks in this house,
to where most of my being lives inside the walls.
I am the woman behind the Yellow Wallpaper,
when I can hear my own voice
whispering down the hall.

I want to see you in every setting, every scene;
When you're hiding behind the trunks of Redwood trees,
or floating in the space between the beach and the sea.
Show me how to dance on an empty, tunneled street.

I want to see you in every setting, every scene.
As you're bounding around the snow-peaked mountain,
maybe swaying in the jungle breeze,
just kiss me as you do the lips of the desert dunes.

I want to see you in every setting, every scene;
Between my sheets,
staring, swirling, shaking, making,
sorting, starving, seeking, sinking,
sinking, sinking.

I want to see you in every setting, every scene;
Always throwing off the symmetry of the busy city,
and tangling yourself in the willow trees.
Drive me to the radio buzz of the dark highway countryside.

I want to see you in every setting, every scene.

I want to see you in in my last setting, my last scene.

Little bugs hang on your hiking shirt,
and there is gold between the leaves.
Where else could I be?

I worked quietly that day.
When you turn to face the sea,
you look into the face of vastness in its entirety,
and a place you simply can't reach.
And I feel everything so mightily.

I worked quietly that day.
When your thoughts drip and drop into
visions of your old friends, and what they were once like,
until your mood is flooded with memories and moments
that one day will be washed clean anyways.
And I feel everything so mightily.

I worked quietly that day.
When you're laying naked on top of my naked body
but there is what seems an entire ocean in between.
And the thoughts come rushing again,
what if he were you instead?
And I feel everything so mightily.

I worked quietly that day.
The day you realize that this is all real and now and happening,
and anymore and you could easily drown.
Today the clouds in your mind open up to reveal an open space,
and you are flooded with all of these things you can't control.

And I feel everything so mightily.

But I want to feel none of this entirely.

You are the force in between
my moon and sea,
Pulling the blankets of the tides
to kiss my coastlines.

I'd trace the wrinkles in your skin
until they resemble trails that
create a national park,
and you become protected,
and no human can tear you down.

I am not scared of monsters,
for the fear inside my head
would exceed the space below my bed.

Here you lie
No different than the Earth's dirt
Barren rock walls reflect the open skies
Dance with me on the horizon lines