She is an atlas
her eyes deepest
and darkest Africa

Unfolded I hold her
tracing the source
of her diamonds and gold

In search of the motherload.

I thought
I could be someone.
I thought the world would open
up it's arms and allow the low
and broken
a home
in which to calm.
I was wrong.
Whispered dreams seem to shatter
on the wind.
A breeze of hope
whisked away the things I know
replacing them with
spinning tears.
No more near-sighted dreams.
A hurricane of plans
span it's last gust.
Leaving our future,
tumbling thickly
as dust.

I wonder, when John Hancock
signed the Declaration,
if he could feel time pulling apart
then back together,
taking the shape
of his America.

I wonder, when Lincoln
felt the cold bullet
enter the curls of his hair,
if he had enjoyed the play.

I wonder, when ****’s
burned ownerless toys
and 80-year marriage rings,
if they were shaken
by the screams of thousands.

I wonder, when the sailor
kissed that nurse
when the war had been won,
if he thought about bombs
or her soft lips.

there’s something addicting about hot showers.
worse than nicotine
there is no surgeon general warning
or a legal age to enjoy a steamy waterfall.
be cautious in your endeavors,
however,
because just like a pack of cigarettes,
they offer guise in smoke.
they can drown you
in your own sadness
or you can throw out your lighter.

i felt it tying weights
to everything that used to matter,
everything that brought me joy.

i looked in the mirror and smiled,
telling myself i was fine.
i looked in the mirror and smiled
at two rows of black soot,
crawling with greedy bugs,
that I used to call pearly-whites.

i felt my nerves and bones and muscles and ligaments
snap apart and wrap themselves
into each other and it hurt so much.

i thought it would never get to me.
i thought one day i would wake up and be okay,
but i never learned how to stop lusting
after dreams not made for me.

It’s Valentine’s Day.
Daddy makes coffee in two cups heart-shaped cups.
Mommy is in bed, sleeping in.
Daddy waits for Mom to wake up- she doesn’t
but she’s still breathing.
Daddy sighs and goes to work.
Mommy shakes my sister and me awake
and pulls us into boots and coats and gloves.
We tiptoe over shards of glass on the way out.

Mommy drives too fast.
She makes me watch when the light is green for go
at long intersections because she keeps getting something in her eye.
We get to the airport.
Mommy dashes inside like a guilty person in a movie
but I know she’s innocent because she’s my mom.
I sit and watch planes disappear into bundles of clouds that look like white cotton-candy
and planes land pulling their wheels into their chest with a fast whoosh.

Mommy comes back empty-handed.
One long sigh passes her lips
before she starts the car.
My sister asks where are we going.
Mommy only gets a short sound out but I know she means home.
“Good,” my sister says. “I’m tired.”
“Me too,” Mommy replies.