Slow Burning Fuse

A Collection of Poems

2

Fuse

3

the biggest lie

I ever told

was said in

such simple

vernacular

that no one

considered

giving it a

second thought

“I’m fine.”

4

Weight

I do not carry my weight just in pounds.

I carry it in dreading summertime shorts

I carry it in not being like my friends

I carry it in waves of terror, undressing in front of anyone

I carry it in fat jokes I’m supposed to find funny

I carry it in claims of Just lose the weight, it’s not that hard

I carry it in my mother calling me fat when I was thirteen

I carry it in being uncomfortable in my own skin

I carry it in stretch marks

I carry it in rejection

I carry it in disgust

I carry it.

5

Monsters

Funnily enough,

I came in thinking you

were a monster.

I came in knowing you

would kill me dead.

Funnier still,

you taught me

that it’s how you go out

that really matters

and even though I’m

still breathing and

you’ve long since stopped,

you killed me all

the same.

6

Battle Wounds

skin like ringed armor

deflecting arrows and

blades that rings out

like the wind through

chimes made from sea

glass unearthed and

collected.

what no one says is that

this armor is heavy,

the weight of it stifling.

they don't mention the

burden and the bruises

where each blow strikes.

contusions pressed

and worried, that never

truly heal but leave no

scars and no proof they

were ever even there.

7

Leaves

I can't settle in my skin;

I feel like I'm changing

fast as autumn leaves

and falling just as quickly.

I'm too small for where

I’ve ended up

and too large to

fit anywhere else.

there's not enough time

in a day and each one

feels yearlong.

I fear I will end up

crumbling under

careless feet.

8

Mythology

They should call me Icarus.

I flew

too close

to you

despite the warnings

and the lectures

I wanted to feel the

warmth of your sun and

the freedom of the wind

but the wax is molten

and I fall apart

I am

crashing

down.

9

Tattoo

Ink on my fingers from

where I drew an approximation

of you on the inside of my arm.

pen smeared across my skin;

rubbed out, blurry versions

of your eyes and your mouth

that fit impeccably against mine.

marker-line wings on my

chest, a bitter interpretation of

what you were and what was

left of you in the end.

and your name,

translated;

needle punched ink on the

thin flesh over my ribs;

permanent and aching like

the empty space you left behind.

10

Guilt

It's not on purpose,

this spiraling decay.

It's from clinging

too tight

from loving

too hard

from moving

too fast.

My heart does its level

best but I'm still stuck

in the backfield.

I'm too scared to come out

and just say it

because I love you

and I know you

and I want to want the

same as you

as not to break your

unstable heart.

Will you hate me?

It won't be nearly as much

as I already hate myself.

11

4 AM

4 AM poetry is heavy,

treacherous.

At 4 AM you become

what you want no one

to see.

Stripped bare and ugly

it whimpers, it moans,

it howls. It whispers secrets,

it cries aloud until it

sleeps once more.

You watch the sunrise.

You remember 4 AM.

Untitled

imagine

if my words

inspired someone

if they spoke truths to a stranger

and set a soul burning

or if my words grew love

where it was lost

and they were quoted

through endless time

it would mean the world

would understand

would know you

like I do

12

Ice

The waves sound like distant thunder—

I hear them, they pull me down.

This shoreline isn’t the same as it was.

The rocks are much more violent;

they’re jagged, sharp, unsteady

they move as I walk across. Dangerous.

We walked these stones with confidence,

careless, on steady feet and

slippery soles. I walk barefoot now

and pray for no broken bottles

because this time I don’t have you.

You can’t carry me across the sand

with my bleeding foot, my red eyes

from crying. My eyes are red now;

but I’m not bleeding, just broken.

Summer’s running out.

The sun soaked sand will cool, the water

turns to ice. Just like you.

13

Uprooted

I am a tree stuck steady,

firm in the ground.

My roots grow strong

deep in soil, around

buried rocks and ancient

bones. My trunk

is wide, uncountable rings

of experience, thin and

thick but all-important.

I am unmovable, too old

to be broken by nature.

You are the wind. A hurricane.

You are unconcerned with my

unmoving roots set deep.

You are invisible until you

blow about my branches, rip

my leaves, carry them away.

You beat against my bark

until it loosens

you whip through my branches

until they break

you push and push and push

my trunk groans with it

and falls.

14

Virus

Bile’s bitter taste clings to the back

of my throat where it’s too swollen

to swallow sips of water and scraps

of food.

I’ll sleep for hours and hours

until I finally wake, still tired

bone-deep exhaustion clinging to

my skin.

My voice is different: muted, strangled

by engorged glands that make it

impossible to swill or swallow anything

but water.

I don’t speak much anyway; content

to let the days slip by in relative silence

but for the stifled whimpers when I

wake alone.

Orange pills, green pills, yellow, blue, white.

Antibiotics and pain relievers that do nothing

and are too big to slide comfortably down

my throat.

Wake at 3:30, pop more pills in the dark

of the empty kitchen, hoping that these

will help, will relieve what the others

failed to.

Self-proclaimed quarantine, locked in my

room, selfishly hoarding the quiet bliss

of no expectations or demands even if

only temporary.

15

Skid

The rumor is to steer into a skid.

What a load of shit.

When the snow is falling hard

enough the roads you know

are strangers. Nothing is the same.

Everyone is sixteen again

when the snow falls. Everyone

is two seconds away from

sliding off the road to crash

spectacularly in the night.

Steer into it;

like your hands aren’t shaking

and the gut reaction isn’t

exactly the opposite.

Steer into it;

Like as if even at twenty miles an hour

the panic doesn’t make you

wrench the wheel away.

Steer into it;

you can tell yourself that a

million times and it won’t change

the way your pulse jumps.

Foot on the gas

hands on the wheel.

I’m skidding.

16

Fabrication

My friend leans across the table

and says, “You’re beautiful”

which is all well and good but

doesn’t change the fact that when

I see myself in the mirror, my face

is too round, my nose is scarred,

my chin, the second one, too present.

The mirror tells me that I have

potential in the shape of my eyes and

the plump of my lips but they’re

overshadowed by the weight around

my middle and the texture of my skin.

My hair could be nice if it weren’t

for it’s predisposition to frizz and

knot and snarl like jungle underbrush.

My friend says “You’re beautiful” and

it’s a counterfeit smile because I know the truth

in the disappointing shape of me and

it makes me fidget and my stomach churn.

I’m making liars of them all and

no one even sees it but me.

17

2013

suffocation

asphyxiation

strangulation

constriction of our hearts

and our heads

choking on the bad,

the wicked, the worst

of the world

expiration

submission

deflation

forgotten hope surfaces

in the face of oppressed,

obliterated expectations

but it only takes one,

a single, distinct deed,

and the world breathes again

an exhalation.

united exultation.

18

24 Hour Time

The clock is all zeros.

Frank Sinatra and his Rat Pack

stare down at a black

and white pool table.

It’s from Ocean’s Eleven,

I think.

The zeros are mocking me.

There’s been an explosion here.

A collection of schoolbooks

I never bothered to open.

Piles of clothes are anthills

on a soccer field.

I should be asleep.

The stolen orange traffic

cone on the dresser isn’t

a traffic cone at all.

Not tonight at least.

Tattooed with sharpie marker

memories.

I don’t know why I put up

Christmas lights this year.

I never light them. Leave the

corners dark and to

the spiders.

19

I can feel them on my skin.

When you have insomnia

you’re never really asleep

and you’re never really

awake.

The clock is no longer zeros.

The alarm goes off.

My bed is already empty.

20

Wreck

sometimes

when I drive

back roads with

no lines

and the sky

is dark and

my headlights dim

I accelerate

and accelerate

with my knuckles

white on the wheel

and my foot

pressed down

until I’m afraid

of myself

and how I’ve

pushed

and I hope

something goes

wrong

I hope I

crash

just to see

if anyone would

notice the wreck

I’ve become.

21

Culpability

It starts sharp in the chest

and rises slowly

creeping up the throat

and burning burning

catching the esophagus

until the eyes are stinging

and they water

and they overflow

and I want to vomit just to

make it stop, to ease the

ache in my stomach.

It mixes with the alcohol

that burns the way down.

It’s a molotov settled in my

gut that ignites and steals

the air from my lungs until

my head throbs. It comes

at night and in the morning

and in the middle of the day

on my drive home.

It comes when I think about you

22

The Centimeter

We are about one centimeter taller

in the morning than in the evening.

It could be simple science the way

our joints are loose and giving when

we crawl from our cave of blankets

and how they settle throughout

the day and are reset once more in sleep.

Or maybe, it’s the slouch of our

shoulders, weighed down by

the hours in the day and the bone-deep

weariness that comes with them;

the heavy hearts we carry through

classes and meetings and dead-end

jobs we never wanted in the first place.

Maybe it’s the burden of knowing.

Knowing that even though tomorrow

is a new day, it is still the same as it ever

was and that centimeter we grew will

always be among the things we’ve lost.

23

Untitled

"You're just existing" she says

like that's not the hardest thing.

Like existing is something that comes

easy in the night when no one’s paying attention.

Like existence isn’t a stopped heart

or strangled breath away.

Like it’s something people don’t

struggle and fight and battle for

every single day.

I’m existing

and I’m hiding

and I’m failing

to be who I should.

I exist but I’m so close to not.

Can you exist without knowing

who you are?

24

Timeline

When I was five years old, I was under the impression that I was a lion.

When I was seven, I thought that I would marry Bugs Bunny.

When I was thirteen, I wanted to work with animals.

When I was fourteen, I wanted to work with plants.

When I was fifteen, they told me I was at the top of my class and I wanted to investigate crime scenes.

When I was sixteen, holding my first B in my high school career, my mother told me in a darkened car, that if my grades slipped I wouldn’t

go to college because we couldn’t afford it.

When I was on the cusp of eighteen, I spoke at my graduation as the valedictorian and was sent off to college with a full tuition

scholarship.

In December of my first year, I only got one A in a writing class because it was the only class I actually wanted to attend.

In May, I was in danger of losing my scholarship and my parents looked at me differently.

Halfway through my second year I moved home, was given a drug test, and made to go to therapy—I only went once and we sat in

silence until the hour was up.

I got a job and it was the only thing I enjoyed about school.

I declared as an English Major because I couldn’t think of anything else.

At twenty-one, I moved away from my parents, my grades improved slightly, and I could breathe again.

I took film classes and I started to appreciate learning again.

I should have graduated at twenty-two but instead I hung around an extra year because I was too afraid to leave.

I’m twenty-three now and I wish I could go back to five when I was a lion in the morning and an astronaut by lunch.

25

Slow Burning Fuse

Slow burning fuse;

rushing towards

Inevitability.

Holding on to

half-realized standards:

the well-timed rescue,

the ten-second countdown,

the last-minute hero

who doesn't exist.

There's just me;

colorblind in a world

of red, blue, and green wires,

scissors at the ready

indecisive, insecure

watching

waiting

compliant as

the world implodes

in glorious fashion;

because I couldn't

just put out

the damn

fuse.

26

Dear You

27

Beddiquette

I don't know how to share a bed

I toss and turn

fidget and twitch

I snore and flail

I hog the pillows

and steal the blankets

I don't know where to put

my hands or tuck my arms

my legs are unwieldy

stubborn and too big

my heart is too loud

hammers away in my chest

staccato against my ribs

Morse code that repeats

over and over and

keeps you awake

I love you. Don't go away.

Shared Space

Poetry is words spilled across a page

the same way your limbs

spill across mine where,

in the limited space of my bed

we share a breath, pull the sheets

over our hips so I can shield you

from any eyes but my own.

28

Diminished

It's mostly your fault, the way

I sleep surrounded by blankets

and pillows, caged in on all sides,

steady pressure on my front and back.

I was never like this until we

shared a bed and it was you in

my space, crowding me to the edge

of my mattress or against the

wall of your room. My full-size

bed is cavernous and empty

all on my own.

For the first time,

I feel

small.

29

Untitled

You know

before you

I didn’t write

poetry

didn’t have a

reason or

the patience

to find

the rhymes

the metaphors

and now

I’m searching for

synonyms

because beautiful

falls so short

of what you are

30

Typewriter Love

Dear You it starts

like always.

Dear You means me.

You is me and You

is you.

Our letters use no names,

just You for we and us.

The typewriter font

calls you to me, the

click clack of keys

resonates in my head

and the fresh ink stains

your fingertips black.

Blocky letters read

declarations and combat

doubts and soothe jumbled

hearts.

Dear You goes the letter.

I read I love you;

a typewriter code

waiting to be broken.

31

Chicago

I'd like to walk with you for

endless miles. I'd take your

hand in mine, like the

puzzle pieces we could someday

wrestle in a wooded cabin.

And the way the sun shines

or is it the florescent light of a hotel room?

catches your hair, glowing bright

like the smile you pull to my lips

when I watch you and you don't see me

looking. I've held it before, your hand,

so small in mine while we sat;

so perfect in my big clumsy fingers and sweaty palms.

I worried you'd find them ugly.

And me.

Because distance and a well placed camera

aren't the same as touching, holding,

kissing.

Am I a disappointment? Am I

an unexpected failure like I spent months

thinking I would be?

Maybe not because I remember

the way our hands found each

other in the crowded hall

I was afraid I'd break you into pieces

And how we fit together in the sliver of bed space.

32

And how your lips felt against mine,

once, twice, three times

not enough

and I tasted Aquaphor for hours on the long drive

home.

Star Gazing

my favorite constellation

is the one between your

shoulder blades;

the flecks on your skin

alongside crescent moon

marks from fingernails

that accentuate the purple

galaxies tarnishing the

expanse of your neck

a map of my discoveries

laid out for me to follow

back home to the curve

of your smile.

33

Body Heat

My lips on your shoulder, your skin is

heated where they touch. My bed is warm

hot

enough for me to kick free of the blankets,

feet dangling from the side like

wash hung out on the line.

It’s not the heat of a sticky New England

summer or the arid warmth of

a road trip through Texas. It’s

comfort and refuge through the press

of your body against mine under

the sheets

and how we woke up

sharing one pillow, my arm thrown

over you to hold you close. It’s how

I don’t feel shame when my sagging

stomach presses into your back because

you think I’m beautiful and you want

like I want.

Everything.

34

Laundry

I’ve been putting off the laundry

for a week

hoping that there’s a lingering

feel of you haunting

my clothes

the ones you held me in and have

aquafor on the sleeve

from where I wiped it after

you kissed me.

It’s piling up and overflowing the

basket but I leave it there

like I leave the long hairs I

find in my bed and

on my bathroom floor.

35

Love Letter

this is not a love letter

but it is lines composed,

carefully strung out, typed

at two a.m.

it is sleep deprived

verses collected to

tell you how problematic

it is to express what you are

it’s me, remembering

how you terrified me

and now it’s that I’m

frightened by how much

I need you

this is not a love letter

it is a declaration of

intent

because I want to

keep you

can I?

36

Florida Nights

Ten days

is far too short a time

to spend in the curve

of your smile

and the corner

of your bed.

Three days

is what we have left

until I am gone from you

from your touch

from your love.

One night

is all it will take

sleeping back in my own

sheets, wrapped up

in New England sounds

for me to miss these

Florida nights.

37

Firefly

I follow you

through dark summer nights.

You spark like heat lightning

brief against the deep blue-black

where the Milky Way sits content to

watch over us.

You flash and I chase you,

jar in hand.

I want to catch you, keep you and

let you light my room.

Fill the dark corners where monsters dwell

and gnash their terrible teeth—

Max’s subjects running wild.

How wonderful to wake and see your

light shining on me.

I wonder if everyone else can see it

when you ignite me. You

set my heart ablaze with

adoration and an aching desire

I didn’t know existed.

Firefly—I’ll follow you.

Don’t leave me behind.

38

Untitled

Your lashes fall, cast a shadow

across your cheeks in the fading

light. The sky is vibrant long enough

to illuminate you in profile; the

slope of your nose, curve of your lips.

It steals my breath, punches it

from my chest as I watch where you sit,

where you should always,

by my side.

Pulse

My heart beats

70 times a minute,

4,200 times an hour,

100,800 times a day.

I could count each one,

spend my days with my fingers

pressed to my throat or

the inside of my wrist,

tallying every beat and

know that each one

resonates for you.

39

Unfinished

If I knew anything about science

I would compare us to atoms

and circling electrons, charged;

electromagnetic force and all.

If I knew how to take apart engines

and build them back up, I could

call you a belt and me a piston,

pieces that make up a whole part.

If I knew how to play the piano

we could be a beautiful sonata

that rises and falls and ends

with a ten minute standing ovation.

If math made any sense to me,

you would be the solution to the

proof I spent years searching for

in a dusty, cramped college office.

If I knew a little of exquisite food

in far away places, where the menus

are impossible to read, you would be

a chance selection and my perfect meal.

I could craft you into a metaphor

if I was any good at poetry; something

elegant to set off my blundering speech

and unsophisticated cadence.

40

Sleepless

3 am sees me wrestling

with the covers, half on-half off;

reluctant to be trapped inside

needing that left leg freedom;

too awake for my own good.

3 am has me thinking of you—

how well I sleep wrapped up in

your sheets, my head on your pillow,

and the soft snores and whistles;

the way your hands grip the covers.

3 am reminds me that my

heart is no longer stone and

that it beats consecutive beats,

caught up in the promise of you

and the rhythm of your breath.

41

Catalogue

I could stretch far, seize

a hundred stars from where they rest

tucked safe in deep black night

clutch them to my breast, collect them

in my hands (overflowing)

I could put them in line, one by one

list and grade them

bright, brighter, brightest

until my eyes ache

my fingertips sore

it would be useless;

not one would match the brilliance of your smile.

Second Hand

I would gladly walk in

borrowed clothes if it

meant I could save a

dollar to hear your voice

across the telephone line

and start my long journey

back to where I’ve always

belonged.

42

Home

It astounds me the way you

fit effortlessly

in my bed, my life,

my heart.

My breath catches in my

throat when you say,

hurry home

and I realize that's exactly

what you are to me

I've made my home in your arms,

tangled in your hair

and you've made yours

buried beneath my skin

embedded in my soul.

Ten Thousand Feet

When I was very young

the idea of flight was exciting.

Pack a suitcase, board a plane,

chase the sun beyond the clouds.

But now I’m ten thousand feet up

headed away from you.

From your bed, the taste of your skin,

the drops clinging to your lashes.

From the scrape of your teeth along

my shoulder and the marks you

left on my flesh and my heart,

seared like tattoos of

typewriter words.

43

The Sweatshirt

I never understood the appeal

of sharing clothes until you were

swamped in the sleeves of my

sweatshirt where it hung on you like

a dress but didn't quite cover the marks

I painstakingly kissed onto your neck

or the lace edge of your underwear

when you laid on the floor with me.

My sweatshirt, years old, stained and

getting threadbare around the seams

looks better than it did the day I plucked

it from the rack. It looks better wrapped

around your waist and over your shoulders.

It looks better when it's binding what's

mine to what's yours in this intimate,

unrecognizable thing that's we've started.

It looks better with you almost in the

same way you make me believe I can be.

44

The Fall

It turns out

falling

isn’t the worst

I could do;

I could have served,

loyal and unquestioning,

or I could have fled

and missed you for

a hundred years

and then a thousand more;

I could have stayed away

and let you be and

never fallen in love with

your voice and the

shape of your lips

when you tell me

this is where I belong.

45

Confessions

You saved me, you say;

whispered into my hair

when you think I'm sleeping.

I dreamt of white picket

fences when I was young.

I dreamt of porches and

swing sets, coat racks and

A doghouse in the yard.

Mostly I dreamt of houses

I saw on after school specials

on static-filled TV sets in

roadside motel rooms.

They weren't homes.

Not like roads and wheels

and atlases tucked under

the seats. Not like diner

food and dusty bedside

Bibles. Not like the curve

of your smile.

Nothing like you.

When you've fallen

and your breath comes

even against my skin,

all I can think is

you saved me first.

46

Pieces

You are a broken thing;

shapeless and shameless,

hanging off the edge of heaven,

dancing on the verge of hell;

white knuckles,

blistered soles.

I am a broken thing;

malcontent and more than a

little malicious,

made mean over interminable time,

my clipped wings throwing

burnt shadows.

We are broken things;

we scrambled for scraps,

our remaining pieces,

and knocked skulls somewhere

in the process.

I think that is how you

got stuck in my head

like an relentless litany

that plays on repeat.

We are broken

but you fit me

just fine.

47

Invulnerable

I think I was cheated,

just a little bit, because

when I first tasted your skin

it was through water

running, pouring down,

and there was vodka on

my breath and wine lacing

yours but despite it all

I found the taste of you—

of your swollen lips,

the length of your neck

already bruising,

the faultless peaks that

made you arch against me,

the flat of your stomach, and

the mark I kissed where only

I could see—

I found the taste of you

addicting. I want to take

my time and count each rib

with gentle teeth, find all

the inches that make you

shiver and I want to swallow

the sounds that pour

from your throat and keep

them safe, the way I somehow

fit inside your heart.

48

Quiet Love

I’ve never been prone to

the loud sort of love

but I’ve driven twelve hours

to spend two days sitting on

the floor of my best friend’s

apartment doing nothing but

sharing space and a bottle of wine

and I’ve crawled into a bed

with a body on either side

and slept off the remainder

of the night.

So throw me that quiet love.

The one where we sit side

by side, sharing space

exchanging body heat

instead of words.

Hit me with soft affection

in dark bedrooms lit only

by the flashing glow of

the television where we

lay curled together

because I know I will drift

your way in the night,

sure as a plant turns its face

to the summer sun.

Shower me with light,

cover me with quiet love.

49

Kansas

Home is where the heart is

so I made my home

in the planes of your

stomach and the way your

hair falls across your forehead.

I made it in the way my name

sounds spilling over your lips

and the pads of your fingers

pressed into the hollows of

my hips hard enough to bruise.

My heart calls for you when

we sleep side by side;

I feel the beat of it against my

ribs when it matches yours,

steady beneath my palm.

I finally understand the sentiment:

there’s no place like home

50

Retribution

It's when the silence

stretches in motel rooms,

long and cold like the

years I was alone,

that I remember your

hands on my hips

and your mouth on my neck

and how you begged for

my forgiveness and paid

your fines with kisses.

If you look closely you

will see my apologies too,

written with my fingertips on

the canvas of your skin,

pressed onto the space

over your heart

where I long to remain.

51

Restoration

52

Four

You can’t braid my hair but it’s okay

because we have our special three

(or four or five)

tier pony that’s just as good.

No one else has got one like mine

and it’s ours together.

I don’t go to school—not yet

anyway; but we all get up

early to walk the eighth of a mile to

the bus stop and wave

JP goodbye when he goes.

He doesn’t wait when we climb

the driveway. He trudges on, backpack

swinging with each step.

My saddle shoes are laced tight

—after losing one to an equine adversary,

take no chances—

and my jacket zipped to battle the

early morning autumn air.

I fall behind trying to make

rings from steamy exhalations.

JP marches on but you turn back

and watch me struggle up the hill.

“Ketchup, Mustard,” you laugh, and

I roll my eyes. Four years old and

invulnerable to puns and sarcasm.

53

I never told you but morning walks

back from the bus stop

short strides misty breaths saddle shoes

trying to match your steps

made not wanting to grow up easy.

Demolition

I think

if we spent less time

constructing walls

and more time

creating doors

we would finally be able to hear

the people

knocking

to be let in.

54

Subtlety

There are subtle signs, which,

in retrospect, are not much as

subtle as him stating:

“I like you, I really do,

but you can’t tell anyone

what’s going on.”

Or when he says:

“They wouldn’t believe you

anyway.”

Or:

“I want to try something.

My girlfriend didn’t like it.

Maybe you will.”

And you think,

Well, this might be the

only chance I have at this

and you lay there hating

yourself but you know

this is what you deserve

and you never hate him;

no, no.

Because this isn’t his fault.

This isn’t him telling you you’re not good enough

you already know that and this is what you get,

this is all you get.

55

Subtlety

There are subtle signs, which,

in retrospect, are not so much

subtle as her saying:

“I like you, I really do.”

Or when she holds your hand

when you drive home where you

can sleep together, share each

other’s space and you can count

the marks she let you leave

and the ones she left on you.

Or:

when she touches you and whispers,

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

And you think

Well, this might be the

chance for something new, better.

And you arch against her

and bite her neck; you lay

there loving her with

everything you have.

yes, yes.

Because this is her fault.

This is her loving you, saying

you’re perfect and beautiful and

you know that this is what you get,

you get to have this.

56

Blinders

The sun is setting,

my foot slips from the accelerator.

The car jerks

and slows before the engine

catches once more.

Fuel ignites and I’m gone.

This road isn’t mine.

I know the curves and

potholes and low hanging branches

of my road.

I know where the bright sun

cuts through the trees

to blind me.

But this road isn’t mine

so as the sun sinks, a

ray between two branches finds

my eyes and everything goes

white.

A second of blindness, panic.

This road twists and turns.

The sky is red and

orange. Soon there won’t

be any light at all to blind or

light this new road.

A blue pickup truck hugs the turn

57

in my lane.

White knuckles and the steering

wheel jerks right.

Roll down window,

extend middle finger.

This road, it’s not mine

and now it’s dark.

It’s not my road,

but it could be.

Turn the radio up,

turn on the headlights.

High beams.

Education

the most important thing

I ever learned in school

wasn’t one plus one is two

or the capitols of all fifty states

but that where you sit at

lunch determines your worth

only if you let it and that

reaching out to someone

can change both of you for

the better

all you have to do is

decide where to sit

58

Panoply

I'm made up of different parts

stuck together with duct tape

and gorilla glue and paper clips

and string. My parts alone are

useless and damaged and cracked

but together they make me move

and laugh and sing. They help me

breathe in a summer night's wet

air, let it fill my lungs till they're bursting

while I lay awake and listen to the

peepers peep in the swamp.

They taught me how to close my

eyes and leap.

My parts taught me to love with my

whole heart regardless of whether it

could be broken. They howled with me

at the moon in a hastily pitched tent

and played monopoly by lantern light

until the cicadas came in force and

Boardwalk was abandoned for good.

My parts braided my hair and washed

my face; bought me saddle shoes and

gave me hand-me-down clothes that

never really fit. They showed me the

magic of movies and how to best dip

French fries in a chocolate shake.

They taught me that to sing off-key

is good as long as the song never stops.

59

Some of them are shiny and new and

some of them I've had since the beginning.

They're broken and dirty and beautiful.

Just like me.

Maps

I want to cover my walls with maps

and the maps with pins

that hold up postcards and

pictures and letters

stuck in the places I've been

I want shelves filled with travel books

and vials of sand and meaningless trinkets

that are only meaningless to strangers

but mean everything to me

60

Ink

It smells like antiseptic

Like an elementary school

nurse’s office.

But it smells like something other too.

Cigarettes, coffee, old Chinese food.

A Boston Red Sox emblazoned

prosthetic leg, upright against the mirror.

I want to ask who’s missing it

but it’s probably a long story

and it’s time to start.

Gloves slide over tattooed knuckles

covering words I missed

my chance to read.

He smirks. Razor scrapes skin.

Iodine stains orange.

An angry hive buzzes over my arm.

Its pitch rises and falls in time

with the rise and fall of my chest.

It prepares an assault.

My eyes snap shut,

a thousand stings pierce my skin.

My teeth worry my bottom lip.

Erratic, uncontrolled.

Raw skin, the biting ceases.

Words are a muted burn.

A cloth wipes away blood and

ink seeps down deep as letters rise.

61

Rough paper towel,

cool relief of ointment.

Covered up with tape and gauze,

At least for now.

Dimension will fade but the phrase is lasting.

Temet nosce1, in ink.

1 Latin: “know thyself”

62

Open

Pulling

pushing

dragging the decayed and dying

pieces across

floorboards

that creak and shudder;

that protest

the weight.

Too many left behind,

none left to carry on.

Shattered bones scrape skin

raw

and the light too diluted

to stitch the hole tight

Leave it open.

Can’t see;

can’t breathe;

cells are splitting.

Multiplying.

Dying.

One remains

to start something

new.

63

Wait Staff

I like talking to strangers.

I like making small talk

and learning the way

someone speaks, the inflection

of their voice and the way

they move their hands.

I fall in ten-second love

when they have a passion

and it bleeds out of their

pores and infuses with the air.

I like wondering if everything

is a lie or if they're being

more honest with me than

with their partner waiting at home.

I like the anonymity of five-minute

conversations that have never

happened before and will never

happen again.

64

Fault

You have this thing inside you,

this burning, writhing thing

that blisters your heart and

claws you to pieces in the dark.

Smoke and fire cling to the scraps

left behind, corrosive and strangling.

This thing sits heavy in your

stomach until bile rises in your

throat because it’s all your fault.

And then: a spark.

Pure and unsullied it pushes

and pushes—it climbs inside and

stays even when you push back;

when you say enough it replies

not yet and digs deeper until

it grabs ahold of that thing and

changes it—lights it from within;

extinguishes it piece by piece

all the while carefully whispering,

it was never your fault.

65

July

I have been blessed with

sticky summer nights

that bleed into morning

before my head comes

close to the pillow and

been able to watch the

star-spotted sky explode

in color; blue-green-purple-red

as my brother runs, laughing

from a hastily lit fuse.

I have driven through the

night and into the sunrise

like I was stepping into a

entirely new world. I have

lost hours crossing time zones

only to get them back a day

later on the trip home.

66

Clean

sink my bones;

send them down,

keep them under,

drown them in

the warmth of your skin

and the curve of your smile

until I forget my sins;

until the water runs clear

and I finally

feel clean.

67

Clann

Stone house, no roof.

Tendrils curl through glass-less windows

unable to keep anything

in or out.

Cattle graze nearby, unfazed by

the casualties of age.

Homes abandoned, no families

tending peat fires or baking sweet, fresh

brown bread.

Stone foundations still holding

against wind and rain and snow.

Against the deconstruction of time.

Waiting

to be used, repaired, needed.

Waiting

for a family to return.

Thatched roofs rot away

like potato roots and leaves.

Stone piles lay behind.

Empty field.

Ruins.

68

Garden

If I could kiss the scars

touch my lips to

the silver lines

the remnants

that you used

to keep you here

grounded.

If I could hold you

keep you

make you mine

whisper those stupid

little nothing's

that mean

everything.

If I could bury

fingers in your hair

if I could press their tips

against your skin

turn it white

make it

clean.

If I could uproot

every thought

weed out

every doubt

If I could plant

seeds of love

instead.

Would you let me?

69

169

There's an old house

I pass twice daily.

Boarded up, broken windows

glimpsed at 55 miles an hour.

Cracked peeling paint

and a roped off driveway.

What's left of the siding is

sun-faded white except

for a weather-worn brown

door set dead center.

I wonder if a bride was carried

past the jam, white dress

caught underfoot, tripping

the groom the way his heart

tripped to see her walk

down the aisle.

I wonder if they planned for

children to fill the rooms

and help harvest the corn

surrounding them on

all sides but one.

Or did the rooms remain

empty? Did the people grow old

and wrinkled without small

hands and miniature shoes by

the door until one day

someone came to carry the

groom away wrapped in

white? Did they stumble over

70

the doorway, sheets underfoot?

The corn still grows, along

with the grass in the front yard.

Grows until it brushes the sills

of sealed, empty windows

and I wonder if someday

my house will look the same.

Keepsake

take the words it’ll get better

and you’ll be fine eventually and

you’re overreacting, kids will be kids

take them in your hand and

warp them until they are as

twisted as your stomach when

you rode the bus or you sat alone

every day, every lunch

crush them under the weight of

your fists and your feet until

they are ground to powder

easily blown away by the steady

breaths you took in the entryway

and remember:

remember to collect the laughter

and hoard the I love you’s; keep

them close and hold them tight.

71

Multiple Intelligences

Encourage your children to be themselves

and ask them to do exactly as you say.

Support art and music and innovation

but only the types that meet will get them a job.

Urge children to read, give them works

of literature and poetry, but only those

by authors who died a hundred years ago.

Make children unearth, invent, discover

the things you want them to experience.

Do not teach children,

inspire them.

Listen when they tell you about

dinosaurs and astronauts and jellyfish.

Let them speak, let them write;

follow their questions

not those from a textbook.

Give them reason,

foster imagination,

let them create.

Do not teach.

Let yourself be taught.

72

Yamaha

I don't think you could feel it

through the layers you wore when

I buried my face in your back and

grinned like an idiot, shielding my

nose from the wind. My safety glasses,

perched on my nose, digging into the

skin behind my ears turned the streetlights

yellow. Maybe you felt my hands around

your waist when they tightened in the fabric

and we leaned together and I laughed loud

into the night and felt like I was flying.

You were warm and solid against my chest,

between my thighs, and barreling into the dark

I was safe.

73

Selfie Culture

Post your selfies.

Post them at 3am;

post them from your room;

your car,

your fucking shower.

Take a hundred pictures,

make a hundred faces;

try out angles and filters

until you find the one

that makes you feel it;

feel that swoop of

Look at me, I’m fucking cute.

Let yourself exalt in

your own dimples, in your moles;

in the little gap between your teeth.

Let you love yourself,

and I’ll be right behind.

74

Good

I wanted to tell you

what you gave me

after years and years

of blaming for things

out of my control and for

making me feel less than I

was when I already felt so

very small. I wanted to

show you the place

you left that makes

it hard to trust and

harder to feel loved

and say how I still hear

your voice in my head.

I wanted to explain

that I hated you for

what you did and how

you made me dependent

on only your words and

on only your praise but

then I realized that

in doing so, I would

prove your control and

make you seem important.

So instead I will tell you this:

I am better, and stronger,

and more loved than you

could ever hope to be. I will tell you I forgive you

because I turned out good.

75

2014

This year

I’m making the resolution

to enjoy the little things

like the memory of

your laugh in my ear

and

your hand in mine

and I’ll resolve to stop

living in the past

and

stop punishing myself

for things I couldn’t

change like how we’re

different people now

and

I’ll tell myself that

it’s okay to miss you

even when it hurts.