Posts
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for you
if feelings are fluid then so is
the way you run your hands through your hair halfway out of your braid
your breath against my neck since you don't want others to hear
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Longing
It’s a ball of knotted string
Stuck under my ribcage.
Whenever I start to untangle it,
I break a sweat & forget
Why I even tried.
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The Bathroom Mirror
Give the lights a sickly yellow glow
Let me reflect
The scribbled-on stall doors and brightly-colored posters
Framing her face, to remind her
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Polaroid
I remember taking Polaroids with you
In the driveway of the house you’ve now sold
On a grey afternoon that looked like night
In the photos. We’d wait impatiently
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Stained-Glass Girl
you should be an image in stained-glass windows
the same ones you trace with your eyes every sunday
while hymns echo in your ears, words
you've known so long you forget the meaning.
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Lavender and Gardenias
Her room smelled of lavender and gardenias
As we lay under silky rays of sun
And danced around the truth in long, snaking sentences,
Words falling over one another until they
Became nothing, only syllables
Loves
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The East Wind
The East Wind is a rabbi in a darkened shul. He sits pored over the Torah scroll long into the night, his back bent like a cane. People come and go and come again, whispering prayers for the needy, the hungry, the sick.
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I am not afraid of spiders
Grief, in all forms, in all ways, changes you. I am not afraid of spiders—they crawl, and they creep, and they dangle from their long lines of gossamer webbing, and they watch me.
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Unlovable
What inherent flaw?
what celestial wrong?
missing ingredient?
failed experiment?
am I?
how am I so unlovable,
that no one comes to hold,
my sorry hand?
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I Will Love You Forever
I went to work the day after they announced it. I stocked the shelves and listened to the radio from the speakers in the warehouse ceilings. Cars were piling up at the exits, trying to get out of town.
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The Season of Figments
Perhaps Autumn is the season of figments. When what’s real is hidden behind mountains of fog. It is a time when what isn’t dances perilously close to what is. The same way the burning leaves that fall, perform their final reel with the wind.
