what comforts can you offer
to a person who smiled
when he was told

“you’re dying”

and he lived?

is the poem a visitor
that the poet guides across
the river Styx
and into the afterlife
of the reader’s eye?

or is the poem a piece
of the poet that they break off
to share with the world
in hopes of understanding
but at the cost
of their wholeness?

or is the poem the energy
of the universe channeled
through both willing
and unwilling conduits
that you know best
as the poet?

or is the poem just words
scribbled purposefully
but for reasons uncertain,
created in a brief flash
of white-hot inspiration
or in a soothing release
of the dull, aching
need to create?

when the poem sits there,
steaming hot and fresh on
paper or screen, the poet
knows the answer to this
question.

ask them again, any other time,
and they could not tell you what
a poem is, just how they feel and
if the next one is coming soon.

I'm a lump of coal
Looking for a diamond
Who remembers what it's like
To not believe in yourself;
Who's willing to wait for me
To finally show what I'm worth

You've been away for awhile, and I've got a lot to say
A lot of things have happened since that devastating day
I want you to know what's going on in my world
I'm gonna be a mother, daddy
I'm having a baby girl

You won't be here when she finally comes into my life
You won't be here when she's the flower ******* the day I become a wife
You will never tuck her in and kiss her goodnight
She'll never meet you, and to me it's just not right
It's like a knife to my chest
A blow to my soul
It's not fair she'll never know the man that gave me life
But I'll do my best to make up for it, I'll tell her every night
The ways in which you loved me and made me who I am
So that I could create this baby girl, and love her like I can

I'll love her unconditionally
Just the way that you loved me
And I'll love her just as much
When she tells me she hates me

I'll look her in the eyes and be reminded of the days
You looked into mine, and loved me this way

Sadistic Queen,
how are you so mean?
Your punches are subtle,
but leave me with internal bleeding.

I love the way it stings.

Bring me another poisoned fruit from your tree.
Make my stomach ball tighter than a white-knuckled fist.
Hit me again,
you beautiful bruiser.
I've never before felt a pain such as this.

You are a *******'s *******.
Take one step closer and I swear, I'll scream.
****** ****** doesn't even hold a candle
to this twisted, grisly, nightmarish scene.

It's almost more than I can handle.
Stop it.
Stop it!
You're hurting me!

I hear them come quick
in short little fits.
Tainted bursts lifted out of lungs thick with poison.

Deal with this.
"Yo, pass that ****."
Glide through mists of green grass, red brick, and grey stone.

This is not my backyard.

"Please stay with me so I'm not all alone."
Pale fingers on a quest to make contact with skin.
"I'm so overwhelmed, I don't know where to begin."
I'm never going back home again.
It doesn't even exist.

She says there's a system.
God made all the rules and set it in motion,
then calmly walked away
to leave us to our own devices (enterprises, surprises, demises)
Come what may.

"There's a philosopher who said that some people spend too much time playing with the meaning of objects in their heads. It can get to a point where nothing makes any sense, and they go crazy. Some of these people find a way to describe it, and they're known as poets."

The moon knows better than anyone,
with her sly smile reflected off the lake,
and all that light stolen from the sun.

"Do you know what I wish?"
No, and please, don't finish.
We are far from being done.
Let's not end it before we've begun.

This is my backyard.

If I'm just a zero,
then you are the one.

I am reminded that the women before me also had their bodies turned into sinking ships.
Captained by reckless men
who abandoned deck,
When their words could no longer be used as anchors.

That word you wrote on my hand
Next to the scar from the day my heart was last broken
Right after you said my hands were beautiful,
Right after you said,
"Your hands look the way I wish my hands looked."
And I said
"Take them."
And slid them across the table to yours,
That word,
Galaxies,
I wonder what it means to you.
I only know
What it means to me.
It means
The first time someone I loved
Truly made me feel loved.
Touched me with tenderness.
Tucked my hair behind my ear.
That word...
I have a confession to make.
I waited, I did,
I actually think I waited until
You backed away from me-
Just to be sure it wasn't your proximity, your continued kindness,
That made me want to do it-
But the day you said you couldn't handle being loved that much right now,
I walked to the center of town
And I told the tattoo artist I needed an exact copy.
It's on my ribs,
Just under my right breast:
Galaxies.
It reminds me
Of how I deserve to be touched-
Gently. Kindly. Tenderly.
I didn't let the ink fade from my hands
Until I knew I'd have a copy of it forever in your handwriting.
I am afraid you will come back
And sink me to the bed beneath you again
And press your skin against mine
And see the evidence that I meant everything I ever said to you.
And I'm even more afraid
You won't.
I don't know what I'll say to you
If it ever comes to that,
If you ever discover it.
I know you'll know instantly.
I know you'll be afraid.
But it doesn't just mean you, to me.
That word, that wound,
Means that even when I'm old and life has done its worst
(And with any luck, its best as well)
I will never, ever forget
The first time someone I loved
Treated me the way I deserve to be treated
(If only
For a moment.)