Float

I am bleached hair under red under green
Coming out with the chlorine
Here for the right reasons
Happy for the wrong ones
I have wet shoes and soaked socks
Filled with salt, sand, and smooth rocks
Caught by the incoming tide
You were wrong that we’d escape
Wrinkled toes
A shoulder scratch
Withdrawal
Proof of the ragged depth
I want to drown you in lavender bathwater

ocean mammal eyes

I knew the first time I talked to you,
a phone line connecting five states,
that you could be someone about whom I’d write poetry.
It wasn’t the abstract descriptions
or the fact that I was unsure of your age,
but the passion in your rambling
and the unexpected laughs I half took credit for causing.
I’m enticed by anything that makes professionalism less professional.
I only adore workplaces that fit in witty banter
and I’ll look back on a job fondly if there was a pretty face involved;
my history asserts this.
Upon introductions, your stress was evident,
my lack of experience glaring,
my communication skills less than impressive –
still – you ask and listen and we talk standing up for over an hour AFTER I say I’m leaving.
I don’t leave.
How could I?
You’re the reason I’m here.
I want to say this to you.
There’s so much I want to say.
(Are you like this with everyone?)
And now look at us, sweating together for hours a day,
fitting in plenty of sarcastic humor,
a couple exchanged secrets,
and at least one long conversation about the state of the world –
all before lunch.
Our goal is to conquer Rainier.
I kind of just want to conquer you –
or myself – I can’t decide.
But if you gave me a sign,
if you continue to talk more about dreams that include me
than your wife at home,
I will give up on my own search for independence
because
in finding you,
I’ve found all I need.
I’m sorry I’ve been filled with tears that need shoulders
and rants that need ears
and gazes that need reciprocation –
you offer it all.
I can’t go on unexposed.
You make this unfamiliar place
home.

an ode to the gun

angular in general,
where the grip meets hammer
and muzzle becomes trigger
a circular barrel
pointed bullets
and flat, fast death

heavy in an unexpecting hand
too familiar in a cold one
curious, in mine,
shooting bullets over empty water
and empty clicks in a full room
tentative
exhilarated
I won’t pretend power has no grasp

but I don’t need it
no one does,
even the people who say they do

so take it
take all of them
throw them in the fire
melt them down to something we can use to create
a sewing machine
culinary utensils
art

take away the deaths of twenty children
take away the falls of six teachers
take away adam lanza
away from the guns
away from a week ago
away from murder

I don’t understand who wouldn’t trade our second amendment to have those lives back.

october 10

some part of me refuses
to get more than just enough
sleep
i could drown in it
if i stayed under too long

under the covers, i mean
i swear i don’t stare at the river
longingly
when i cross the bridge
i promise i didn’t mean what i said

my mood is always a step away from
sensible
a leap away from yours
and it seems if i’m happy with you
i’m a little less here

on the nights you are missing
on the mornings you don’t try
i climb inside the hole in my mind
and surprisingly,
eventually,
i take solace in the discontent

i didn’t think i was the type
who pushed away
i didn’t think
i could only do easy
but it’s always been like this

your inconsistency
my dissatisfaction
are the only reasons
i’m still waiting

tube life

i was standing on the train
an antique pendant
on a gold chain
around my bruised neck
made eye contact
with a girl across the way
and miraculously
in this cold city
she smiled at me

oldest child

i had never felt older, and i have not felt older since, that summer afternoon when we were sitting in your mom’s van, parked behind some big shading trees, and you reclined my backseat, unzipped my jeans, pulled them to my ankles, and went down on me.

i had that black tank top on, my bare arms behind my head, and i looked down at your playful devotion. my eyes were lazily shut, almost bored – until i came in a soft scream, bringing my arms down so i could pull your knotted hair.

summers were good for us. i was sixteen.

i had never felt older in that moment. i’m not sure why, but i haven’t felt older since. maybe it was the way you were bowed to me, or how i knew you were wrapped around my finger. but it could have been that you were two years older, and and my mother didn’t want me out with you. maybe it was in me – my attitude, my pretentious disposition that would soon fade with high school but at the moment kept me on top of the world.

these days, i’m not sure where i am in it.

leaving london

i feel the urge but
i’m not yet drunk enough
to sit in the bathroom and cry
and i know these people
too well now
to walk out with clear eyes
but not well enough
for them to see through
my lies
i’m not sure how strong
we’ve tied
these ties
i guess we’ll find out
when we fly home
and spring sighs.

in my head

i told myself i’d fight this sadness
but sometimes you get me down
you apologize
sorry is simple to say in the dark
and for the first time
i make love that i don’t mean
you tell me it’s all in my head
well that’s where i live
and most of the time
you’re there too

sometimes i feel really normal

i enter the small basement classroom where a few people have already taken the middle desks and wait for the rest of the class to show up. the rest of the class ends up being only a few more guys. the skinny professor with grey hair, big glasses, and a small, slightly creepy smile enters the room and takes his time looking us all in the eye for a few seconds while some of us shift uncomfortably in our chairs. he speaks slowly and softly, rarely losing that small smile that is more condescending than welcoming. he begins talking about the philosophy of art and i feel at least a little bit at ease knowing i’m in the right classroom. the skinny philosophy major couple exchange knowing glances; they’ve had this professor countless times before. the nerdy tall guy in front of me sips some kind of brown liquid out of a small honey jar with a $4 sticker on the cap. i examine his hair; it looks like he once had a mohawk but now it’s starting to grow out unevenly. a scary looking kid with a scar across the side of his head sits front and center and perks up when the professor mentions neitzsche. i avoid looking in the corner of the room where a kid whom i’ve heard pleasuring his girlfriend far too many times to count sits. he avoids looking at me too. a sophomore girl i’ve had previous philosophy classes with sits smiling excitedly and nodding at the prof, which is pretty much her favorite activity. i stare at a guy with long wavy hair in the opposite corner of the room and notice we’re drinking the same brand of tea. i turn my gaze back to the professor after i realize he has asked us no less than three times in in one minute if we have any questions. but i know what he does with questions so i keep my mouth shut. the male half of the philosophy major couple takes the bait and speaks symbolic logic jargon. the professor loves this but, as always, questions the question and turns it into a ten minute banter that i don’t pay attention to. somehow we go from discussing the main topics of the class (philosophy, art) to doing some kind of math equation with variables and asterisks and an equal sign – but no solution. typical. eventually he closes the class and i finally ask him a question: “what’s the homework?”

i wonder what everyone was thinking about the girl sitting in the back watching them.

forget forever

you gave me something
a gift i’d already received
no less than twice
each time, i had thought about it
touched it, turned it over in my hands
tasted it, was tempted by it
and eventually returned it to sender
even if it took a year or two

it was different from you
it felt softer, tasted sweeter
and i didn’t want to let it go
so i put it in a little box on my dresser
and i kissed you in gratitude

months passed
and i became uncertain
i started checking up on it
started opening that little box
each time it seemed as though it lost some color,
some taste, some sweetness, some substance
and each time i checked
i saw frustration on your face
i was so afraid of losing this precious gift
that i started losing you

so i don’t check anymore
i stand facing my dresser
and i do not look at that little box
i don’t even know if it holds the gift anymore
but i don’t care
i no longer worry
i will let no more tears spill
over the idea of consistency
when i live in such an inconsistent world
and i myself am an inconsistent person

a heartfelt promise of forever
is a promise fated to fade
and i intend to forget
so i do not fall