queen of the field once again, I return triumphant. I want to live in the place where leaves come from, where the raspberries are born on the bush, the space between impossibility and abundance. blueberry stained dress from lying in the sun, not a care in the world: I eat a plum by the fire pond in six bites. clung to by grass and no one else, being somewhat let go has not left me feeling freedom- my independence has come from being very fiercely loved, if only by myself and the clouds.
It crept up so slowly I could barely hear its hollowed footsteps. It crept up soft as April creeps up when you can barely tell the beginning of spring from the end of autumn.
I didn’t always have words. Now I can reach a bucket down inside my chest, draw up pails full of them, but then I didn’t know the words for the curve of her neck is so smooth her hair makes my skin feel on fire her smile makes me want to hold her hand.
Didn’t have the words for shouldn’t tell your friends this to say it’s not my job to correct the blunders of every family member to respond to was he a nice boy? when I went on a date with a girl.
So now April has crept up, and the sun warm on my skin almost makes me miss winter, makes me miss not having to justify my existence to chirping birds, woodpeckers hammering my house.
Easy to forget the important things, huh? Brother's birthday, French verb forms, doctor's appointments, the oven you left on. So why can't I forget the color of nail polish I was wearing? Can't forget my cherry earrings, how one of my socks was white and the other was cream (some unimportant Thursday.) I remember the eye color of every person I've ever liked all the words to camp songs, insurance jingles, plot points of "Grey's Anatomy," season 8, who sat next to me our last dinner in Galway, the worst thing my mother has ever said to me. Things that don't matter anymore. Things that never mattered. Things I'd like to forget. Things I'd quickly replace with the equation of a parabola, or the molecular weight of water.
one I wake up at six o’clock and the sun hits my ceiling and clings to my eyelashes so hard I have to blink it away
two I stand in the majesty of the same sun streaming through the bathroom window and it is better, less of a sadness and more of a heavy appreciation as I spit foamy mint in the sink let myself remember you are in pajamas the house is quiet school is hours away and you miss your mother
three an odd feeling of motherliness towards little piggy/little simon and their unfortunately youthful faces with the milkweed hair of children and the impending sense of doom that surrounds them reminding me why I hate movies (lord of the flies)
four a glowing reward far off in the distance the setting sun of a western movie
New York is a heartbeat; my heartbeat, as the electric subway flies down the tracks like a silver strike of lightning.
I have a yellow strand of crepe paper wrapped around my neck, a string of sunshine fighting the glow of Times Square around my shoulders, free souvenir of SpongeBob the musical, a giddy throwback to age 7, when I lived in a city.
I never lived in New York, only Boston, with its maze of streets, the corner store walking distance, ice cream bars in the sticky heat of summer. New York is more methodical than this.
Methodical, but sleepless, we eat pasta across from the hotel minutes before midnight, I don't understand the language the patrons at the table behind us speak, but it's an odd sense of peace to not be alone in the restaurant.
I am a disposable plastic cup and someone left me lying on your driveway. and rain, well, it washed away my logo just a smear of Green now. I wish you saw me the way I see me. Because every time you slight me I’m empty/disposable/Green you don’t bother to put me out of my misery (throw me away) maybe someday when I run out of mugs I can put my coffee in the litter on the ground thought no one, ever. But I have to believe I’m some kind of backup to you, cuz if I’m not you don't care/ just left me here to rot (And in case you were wondering plastic doesn’t rot)
I've started a little game where my friends give me a word and I try to write something with it. Up first is "Fog" (thanks Cam).
Eyes like two cups of coffee stirred with cream and sugar, warmth and brightness that barely shield us from the surrounding woods leaves crunch underfoot, fog hangs heavy in the air a thick vapor a wall between her eyes and whatever lies ahead.
After the summer, I always get a rather large bout of writer's block. This isn't new to me, it's been happening ever since I became serious about writing. But this year was a little different. I wrote more this summer than I've written any other summer, and I came back to school feeling drained and exhausted, like the river of words that has always run through me ran dry. All my humanities assignments sucked every last bit of writing energy out of me, and my journal and notes app having been filling with dust and cobwebs since September. By November, I felt extremely guilty about not having written for a while. I tried to force whatever poetry I could out of me. I turned to old sources of inspiration, because nothing around me was inspiring anymore. Writing felt like a tedious chore, and I hated that. That's the thing; I can't write if I feel pressured. And I was pressuring myself.
Quiet besides the rhythmic replacement of clothing fabric against my skin. The lights don’t buzz the sink doesn’t drip for once my day is quiet as nights on Inis Mor I the only one awake after Good Will Hunting was over and we in our corner room were tucked in. Me, climbing out of bed socked feet padding to the window and the breeze was like Cape Cod like my grandmother my childhood cookies from boxed mix and books from eight cousins.
I existed in many places suddenly in the picture frame on my mantle in the surf at the bay in that quiet little room in my sister’s heart in the empty locker room after class in my memories as I unmade and then made myself again taking off one version to be another.