You hold it, have it,
but do not hang it
over me. You tuck it
away in a careful corner
of your heart, remember
that it's there
but hide it as one of
the many promises we
made to each other.

You keep it so I cannot touch it
cannot look at it
or feel its cold reminder.
You soften the sting,
hidden from the world-
myself even-

You saw my weeds
and you
gathered them,
bouqueted them,
owned them,
watched them bloom
and for that I will always
love you.

She teaches her body to ache for him,
move for him and dress for him;
to reject the familiar banter and comfort
in knowing he is close.
She banishes familiar kisses
to muster the mystery
that moistens her;
she loves him but she has
each molecule committed to memory,
etched in her being.

This is love, yes-
but she must back pedal a bit,
clear the air to feel the ping in her inner pit
when he comes near-
just like it was, just like it used to be
before they occupied each others’ hearts.
When he was just a body at the bar.
When he was just a dark haired conquest.
When she was just a hungry girl.
Feed me, she says.
Feed me.

We were close to being bonded, you and I;
so close to the precipice of change,
so close I could feel my bones rattling;
swore I could feel my abdomen stretch
ever so slightly
to accommodate your tiny body;
so close was I to facing the reality of your creation
that I now feel abandoned by it;
an idea, a possibility, a tiny hope.

You leave me here to walk on
as you fade into the darkness
of what could have been,
into the shadows of
other great ideas.

I hold on tightly to the last threads
of your almost-being-
what hair you may have had-
soft and dark like mine or
coarse and plush like your father's.

Would you have smiled at me
when our eyes first met or
would you have pondered
what I am,
who I am,
who you are-
as I most certainly would have done,
still do...

Poetry does not want to be quiet;
silent and simple in black type.

Scream your poetry!
Dance it, feel it
between your fingers.

Run with it, carry it
with you under your skin.

Smell it! Is it sweet or ****
between syllables?

Does it speak to you?

Poetry is not calm and sedated.
Animator of all things,
guardian of history;
holder of hearts.

Poetry moves through molecules-
molds meaning in the mundane.
Don’t leave it soundless in the dark.

As the happy hour crowd
walks down Redwood Street
in its ***** lamp lit haze

they pass by dozens of
cart pushing men in
old bomber jackets
fading into the
unwashed stone beneath
windows newly washed
by minimum wagers.

These men and their
overstuffed suitcases,
their ***** fingernails
and aging shoes,
their cold noses
and heavy breath
seep into the shadows
like long forgotten artifacts
on an antique store’s shelf.
They droop, collecting dust,
begging to be lifted or even
touched.

Some smile and sing
with an overturned hat
patiently expecting
on the street curb.

Some sit, slumped
and seem like
a misshapen lump of clay
in the dark
with plastic cup extended.

The happy hour crowd
coming from UMMC
clad in multicolored
scrubs and pressed
business suits with
golf club cluttered ties
and black silk button down
blouses that block the cool wind
passes them by with the same
glance they give to
lamp posts.

Amidst the mosaic
of fall’s vibrant finale,
in motley piles of brown,
red, and green
she performs each of her steps
like a frantic symphony,
stomping a storm of leaves
onto the street- each one
crumbling and crackling
beneath her feet.
She laughs with limbs flailing,
leaf bits sailing
in the cool November air.
She pushes and kicks,
whooshes and picks the perfect
spot of soil for her creation.

Once her leafy
blanket has piled high,
she takes a few steps back,
breaths in, and dives.

Tanks tear through
flaming towns- a
mother shielding bullets.

The world erupts and
he is alive in a sea of
broken bodies.

In his tattered tent,
late-night he
is broken too.

He touches me
like I was
shattered glass

as his fingers braid
my loose strands:
assemble, disassemble.

The scent of sawdust
and powder lingers
on his ashy skin.

I inhale and
hold him,
gently.