My body somehow knows
The grief tomorrow holds.
I ache and throb
But I cannot sob;
The urge to cry
Stings my eyes.
My feet drag heavily
In the depths of this valley.
Every year without fail
I remind myself I am too frail.
"You're strong without the numbers,"
Yet I was too weak to pull you from your slumber.
Each March 22nd
Feels just like the 1st end,
When your heart stopped beating
And mine started bleeding.
I'd skip this whole day
But I'd miss the chance to say:
I miss you, lovely little hurricane.
It's all I can do to keep sane.
The smell of mint
Hurts just a hint.
The skinny jeans and hair bows
I could never disown.
I wear your effect  
On my forearm *****.
The pain of loss is akin
To etching you into my skin.
My hands shake with cold,
Though not as cold as a headstone.
Oh, how my body knows
The grief tomorrow holds.

I died for you once
And I told myself-
I would never again
Make a graveyard out of a garden

- why do I always cut away the flowers to make room for tombstones

i.
you wonder if somewhere there's a voodoo doll with your face stitched on
(and if it's covered in pins since god knows that would be the logical explanation)
who goes away in winter? he'd laughed and laughed
-- and in spite of yourself, you let him

you very patiently explain that with european winters
'the sun's still out but it's no cancer risk
and the air's still hot at night but it doesn't try to choke you
and what's more cathartic than a spanish caravan park where you're serenaded by crickets?'
playing it off as a quirk, not an excuse to be anywhere else

he'll never know the comfort in being
little more than a passing stranger
a face on a street or in a window or a car
transient, fleeting; the short-term memory lasts roughly thirty seconds
so you're a stranger in a yellow polo and then you're nobody:
it's the circle of life, but compact and mildly less terrifying

ii.
unexplored streets and brains are bigger than home:
you can only be your true self when you are not at home
eyerolling, rotting from air pollution and complaining about first-world problems
you're hardly ill at mind but you're jaded and sad and sufficiently middle-class
so when in doubt, you pack a bag and think nothing else of it

you buy the guardian and a kitkat from a sullen newsagent
whose hands look like your grandmother's
(why do you notice this stuff?)
the poor guy's only middle-aged surely - he can keep the change
counting coins is weird and confusing anyway

happy flying says the hostess with a ribbon around her neck
she means it and you know exactly why she'd taken the job on:
fixed addresses are awfully limiting
and the swarms of crying babies are probably worth it
to get to go everywhere EVERYWHERE

iii.
package holiday dj digs out his usual and plays 'come on eileen' for an aging crowd
your eyes are upturned to a foreign sky and you breathe warmth
the stars are out and you are floating quite carelessly at the top of a swimming pool

happy birthday

I was making my way down
The highway,
Cornfields on both sides of me.
The moon shined even though
It was still day time.
The sky was a light lavender shade
That oozed into a faded blue
Twilight, you could say.
I caught a glimpse of a doe
And her baby
Walking through the endless field.
My mind wandered.
Where did they come from?
Perhaps they came from
Deep in the woods,
Where the birds sang
And the creek bubbles,
The sun seeps through the trees.
Perhaps all the animals got along,
Or maybe,
They came from an open field,
Maybe they had a family,
A buck, a herd,
Possibly even a few more fawns.
Maybe something drove them from there.
Maybe a gun,
Maybe a predator,
Maybe weather.
My mind wandered more,
Where were they going?
Were they looking for somewhere safe?
Or were they only trying to survive?
I wished I could see more of their journey.
I wanted to root them on.
Keep living!
Keep fighting!
Where ever you're off to, keep going!
Then the moment passed,
They were long out of my sight.
I hope they are still alright.
I hope they were alright.

People say me and my sisters are so much alike,
And that's because we are made of the same blooming flowers,
We were grown in dry soil with no one to tend to us but ourselves and each other.
We learned long ago how to water ourselves and how to pluck the weeds out from around each other,
We are forever growing together pushing the others forward.
We rejoice in the rain,
And blow camly in the winds.
People say me and my sisters are so much alike,
And that's because we are the same blooming flowers
-we were homegrown

Keith has done his rain dance
No more fun in the sun
Too much time in Egypt
until the war was done

Rain rain rain aplenty
all the drains are running empty
Like Santa's Rudolph always prancing
I will keep on rain dancing