Our Kitchen

With our innocent kisses,
And our nerdy jests.
We started off delichious,
Laughs echoed from our chests.

Soon I was swept,
My feet high off the ground.
We were falling, crashing, wrecked,
Hopes of sanity drowned.

As I fell for you, hard,
You grew sweeter by the day.
Like a grape from God’s orchard,
You became the richest Chardonnay.

This fit was better than fiction,
Warm and snug like a glove.
You built us a kitchen,
Out of sheets and out of love.

Your smile lights my life,
And you never fail to find mine.
You’re more gorgeous than island Tenerife,
I’m floating away on cloud nine.

Smiling, we cried

Originally published in the book “All At Once I Saw My Colors”

His mind went first, and his body followed
Knowing and wanting it to be the end

His body wracked by hundreds of bombs
Masquerading as cancer
Watching him die was like
Watching a flower wilt

My shoulders mimicked his as they fell for the last time
And together we let out a final breath
Months of air had been sucked raspily from this room
This life
With one exhale the air returned

All at once he was there and not
Sitting, waiting, watching then
Smiling, we cried

He put her in the sky

He put her in the sky
She belongs up there, he thought
With the clouds because
The only constant thing about her is change
With the wind because
She can rip trees from the ground like a hurricane
With the sun because
She lights fires with her eyes

He put her in the sky so she could watch the world
So she could watch the roses she helped to bloom
So she could see him grow, too
He sent her up on a star
So she could breathe deep, up in space

He put her in the sky because
She is gentle, he has always known
With the clouds because
They empty themselves onto the earth so it may drink
With the wind because
She spreads seeds of hope across deserts of despair
With the sun because
Her love burns like cotton in a fire

He put her in the sky
His rose petal goddess
He put her in the sky
Because
He loved her
And he couldn’t hold her down

Desk

At first glance it is smooth
Your hand could glide across its surface
But the glossy sheen is misleading
It is porous, rough
Small infractions scattered across a glossy sheet
Create rough texture that tears skin and snags sweaters
Its abrasive surface is peeling over the corners
Exposing a cut-down-tree
That is rougher still than its casing
Splintering in fifteen directions it attaches to its victims
And burrowing into their flesh
It seeks the warmth of concealing pores

I will watch

Three circles on his back
Each for something he is
And something he is not

The first, he is
A dreamer
The ethereal creature floating on a shoulder of clouds
Carrying wonder and wisdom and whisking children away

The first, a partner
He dreams to be but he cannot manage
For he has lost one, two, then three
And does not want to see another one go

The second, he is
A master
Of beauty and pain
Who wields sharp words that cut and dismantle
But when melted heal and mend
And regrow

The second, a father
For which he replaces, but he is not
I remembered today
When my blood trickled thick inside my thigh

The third, he is
Tortured
By memories and fears
Haunted by needles and motel rooms and slamming car doors

The third, broken
He will never be
He will thrive and I will watch
Quietly
So as not to disturb him

You do

I don’t know how to make words melt into honey
How to take blankets and chairs and make them talk to the sun
How to put someone else in your museum mind and give them a tour
How to raise demons and calm seas with pen strokes
But he does

I don’t know how to give my words dreams of their own
How to write a book that cries before its reader can
How to carry responsibilities so mountainous they crumble down around themselves
How to breathe, and appreciate each oxygen, carbon, nitrogen molecule
But you do

I don’t know how it feels to be sure
To know what you want and where to find it without journeying to the crevice of minds and back
To know how to reach goals – with what haste and what spare time
To be able to say, with confidence, ‘I know’
But he does

I don’t know what it is like to shoot heroine
To feel the warm rush of toxic relief race to your chest and spin through your skull
To fade into a dark oblivion
To cover track marks with long sleeves even in hot aching one-hundred-and-five degree summers
But you do

I don’t know where I’ll be in ten years, or twenty – in the ground ten feet deep or ten thousand feet high
If I’ll still be on this path or have chosen another
If I’ll remember the years I spent pining and pacing, looking for help in the darkest of places
If I’ll still see you or have found a new muse
But you seem to