A painting of ancient animals curled up in a museum. We met in a red dress. Pillars welcomed us through the entryway. The northern pond overflowed with ducks. Where does one look when searching for oneself? In the dank spaces between salt, sea water, and earth.
Tag: life
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Legends
Mama always said the illness smeared its oily sable ink down our whole entire family tree and did not stop or skip a single branch. Mixing brown cracks with sludge makes minds break, makes minds fracture into jagged chunks. Resentment turns to clarity turns to experience. The wise one knows no one can resist its slippery grip. I will not be the first or the last. What saves sanity and sobriety eludes us all. Brings fist fights, inpatient hospital stays, both the pipe and the bottle. Onyx tracks seep down bark, trunks, and trickles down through the roots.
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Our Ghosts
Your liar’s smile,
a brief hesitation,
an admission of guilt.
We sit across the picnic
table plank, plotting, silently.
As silent as the smoke
raises from Big Sur earth,
mystical swirling toward blackness
from the campfire.
A smoldering,
burning brush,
struck by flint.
A spark as silent as the secrets
that float around us,
we surround ourselves
with our ghosts.
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Breaking Up
I crack
an unvarnished egg and
its ripe,
orange yolk falls
to pewter floor tile.
Absentmindedly,
I grab
the kitchen broom, then
come to my senses.
I try
to scoop the egg’s insides
it oozes
through the spaces
between my fingers.
Instinctively,
I think
to make a mask,
then reconsider.
Staring at mess,
I wonder
how quickly can things go
so wrong
Are all pristine things
made to break
too soon?
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Losing It
A small, wilted plant is perched on the charcoal countertop of a cramped studio apartment kitchen. From the confines of my hospital mattress, I will it to mend, sending mind waves to my old flat. When a soul breaks, does it splinter delicately like sea glass dropped on the surface of bronzed beach shore sands? Or does it split neatly into two chunks like a thick ivory porcelain platter meeting hardwood plank? Every single morning, I swallow my pills, and every single evening, I do the same. The nurses say it’s too soon to celebrate discharge day. So, we bleed into one another like the months on the wall calendar, like wet ink on damp notebook paper. Bleed like the wrists of my roommate patched up, stitched up, wrapped up in gauze. We float down psych unit hallways like misfit ghosts: professors, musicians, painters, restaurant owners, and radio personalities – shuffling in loose gowns from one scheduled group therapy session to some other, patiently commanding our psyches to convalesce. Every morning, sunlight seeps through frosted security windows with grated metal covers, gunmetal crosshatched over glass dense and sharp and clouded as icebergs floating across the Arctic. The wind whispers words that tell stories of freedom and peace and home – stories that patients like us will never profoundly know.
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The Lovers (VI)
Our love
is like dusty
land scorched
from arid heat.
A centuries-old
volcano, still active
and threatening
eruption.
We beg
the gods for airs
wet and sweet, but
the rain never falls.
How best
to describe a thing
so thick
and oppressive?
That fills
us up and lays us
out, bloated
and plump to the touch.
What leaves words
limp and inadequate,
yet binds us
forever.
Such sounds
insufficient – how many
ways to say souls
split then sewn back together?
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Whole Again
I know how to make a bouquet
from scratch. I pull out daisies
dead and molded from the dank water
from the purple vase, wash it clean,
and throw the flowers in the garbage.
There were no more flowers since
the day you walked out, the house
suddenly lost its charm and natural
light, and I found new ways to
make myself whole again.
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New England Snow
You and I
stayed up all night
talking about nothing
in the dim light of an old restaurant.
Outside,
your glasses fogged up
in the snow
and I felt your warm hand in those
leather gloves on the small of my back
grabbing for me as I almost slipped
on the ice.
And now you’re thousands of miles
and thousands of text messages away from me.
We tried to make it work,
somehow long distance always wins the battle.
Until next time
I can see you in the New England snow
with more walks around the Commons
and dinners in dimly lit restaurants.
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The last time.
I lay in bed, gazing
at the sky as clouds
roll past. The sun beams
down onto my face, and
all I can think of is
the last time we kissed.“The last time.” – sugar and sandalwood
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Time.
And over time,
you will shed
the layers of
insecurities
and untruths
that you
patched onto
yourself
like an
uncomfortable
quilt.“Time.” – sugar and sandalwood
heartbreak and cigarettes 