Harmony
I am a discordant harmony,
a hum of sunlight and shadow,
plenty and emptiness,
the clear sparkle of a brook
and the overwhelming embrace
of the mists.
Apocalypse
When I was a kid, anxious
about the state of the world,
I used to read wilderness
survival books as a coping
mechanism.
My teen self was an integral
part of several
apocalypse survival teams.
It was all the rage to plan
one with your friends,
back in 2012.
I could kind of aim
my bow (if only my arrows
were not lost)
and I could kind of find
food and scramble
shelter together, so I
figured I knew enough.
If the world did end,
I’d scramble my teams
together into a village.
Now, I’m less certain
in my skill (I’ve grown
wiser) but generally
I’m as uncertain as I
have always been.
I have never trusted
the world to hold
itself together.
I still trust the forest
to keep me, if only
for a while.
Quest
These days, I don’t look for love
as much as I used to.
The thing I’m seeking is the quest
itself, and love is a piece
of the Hero’s Journey. So let
me journey, let love find me,
let the near destruction
and surprising rebirth
envelop me and recreate
me as someone capable
of saving.
Call me to my adventure
already. Give me a quest.
I’ll find the rest.
Wholeness
I want to feel whole again.
What can I do?
But you are already as
whole as a thunderstorm,
and as full of light.
No, I mean…
I want clarity.
You’re as clear as a
rushing river, what more
could you want?
To stay in once place,
to be at peace.
Maybe next year.
seedling
they watered the seedling
with their dreams,
some hoping for a flower,
others hoping for a tree.
the seedling bloomed into
a simple shrub, green
and lush. they shrugged
and left. they forgot
it all depends on the seed.
Nightmare
My life dissolved.
I was living
in your dream.
You did not see
that for me, it was
a nightmare.
You did not
understand
my scream.
chamomile
1. november
this month always brings curses along with the blessings. by now, i should have outgrown my surprise at this phenomenon. maybe next year. the leaves drop and the rain turns to snow and the government steals the only usable hour of sunshine i can get. i gain a year of wisdom and i draw my family close and hope that arguments die before they can blossom. sometimes, the unending grey is a comfort. i’m tired.
2. the thing outside my window
i keep my blinds drawn, because the thing outside my window is not a thing at all. it’s the noise of the road and the prying glare of the streetlights. it’s the creak and sway of the berry tree. we used to throw the berries into the road for cars to crush, laughing all the while. the thing outside the window is my own reflection–i can’t make eye contact with myself without worrying that ghosts are looking back at me. my reflection’s eyes hold more past than future. i’m tired.
3. chamomile
i know exactly what everything will look like when everything is fine. someday. i’ll be in love and together we’ll plant the yard with chamomile. you don’t have to mow it and it blooms for the bees and i’ll be able to make tea from the same leaves we dance on. we will bottle sunshine to tide us over through november’s shadows. all that lives outside our window will be what we plant together.
when we’re tired, we’ll hold each other.
we’ll hold each other.
haunted
one of these days I’m going to make a list
of all of the things I believe are haunted.
there are people who could convince me
that anything was haunted. i have friends
who could point at a random lightbulb
in the supermarket and say “that’s haunted”
and i’d reach for my cross when it flickered.
i’m not saying i’m gullible, i’m just saying
that i have a tendency to believe
and a list of haunted places a mile long.
pewter
i have a heart
cast from pewter
and plated in gold,
heavy, but soft
and warm to hold.
there’s a hint
of poison inside,
but you’ll only
find it if you break
my heart.
the end
i. farm road
we’re driving down a farm road and all i can think about is the end of the world. there aren’t many signs about it in this neck of the woods, but there was an eroded billboard that said “te rive” two miles back. it brought my mind to postapocalyptic naming, to lost people finding meaning in fragments.
ii. stab wound
the problem with stab wounds is that your instinct is to take the knife out. it’s the same with love. if you walk too far away from it, the sadness will start spilling from you and leave you with nothing. it might sting, but you have to hold it close until someone saves you.
iii. satellite
satellites look steadier than stars. they move, but they don’t flicker. one will last billions of years and take everything with it when it burns out, and for some reason, that’s the one that flickers. i’m still not sure which one to wish on.
iv. horns
they used to sell narwhal horns as unicorn horns. is it a lie if everyone is in on it? if i am not expecting it to heal me and i am not expecting it to grant my wishes, if i’m just expecting to claim a symbol and to make someone jealous, i haven’t been lied to. have i?
v. chopping wood
i’m trying to get the bonfire ready. trying to create some light and some warmth. if you can wish on flying embers like they are stars, does it matter what the satellites are up to? does it matter if you’re lying about everything being alright, as blood and love stain your sleeves? has the world ended if you are still standing?
Love
May the love
that you have given
and the love given to you
blossom
and sustain you.
Loud
I awake to the sounds
of the road.
They are too loud
for the window
to be closed
and I stumble to shut
it before the rain
invades.
I can’t stand how loud
the road is here.
I grew up in a house
distant enough
that I could never hear
the cars pass by.
To find peace
when I have a home
of my own,
I will have to count paces
so I know how
far back I have to
scar the grass
with a path and where
to gouge the foundation
into the earth.
To find my own peace,
will I have to raise
my children like me,
unable to withstand
the noise?
Perhaps I’ll live alone.
Or perhaps,
each weekend,
I’ll tote them to
my friends’ houses.
Maybe then, both
silence and sound
will feel like home.
nostalgia
1. lantern light
the front window has such a specific glow to it, like lantern light. i’m not sure which parent insisted on shaping the window like that, but in the snow it seems less like leaving home and more like leaving narnia.
2. bundled
we always shop for a christmas tree late. dad gave us his chronic procrastination and mom wants a boxed tree that won’t fall. we haven’t gotten a robot tree yet, just these lovely snow-covered forgotten things bundled on the roof the day before.
3. late night run
the grocery store is better past midnight. it’s a fact. silent and holy. so what if we’re making a late night run because we are too forgetful. we’ll make this place a church of laughter and shriek along to all the songs.
4. salt
there are snowflakes melting on my face. so what if some of them taste like salt.
5. video store
we never quite agree on a movie, we just mill around the last remaining video store for hours, holding up scratched covers. we don’t know how to watch a movie anyway, we do it wrong–pausing at the most important parts, missing all the dialogue, missing the laughter. i leave half the movies we watch without knowing the character’s names. i leave the house with the light in the window flickering, pine needles stuck in my hair, the snow plowed up and scattered with dirt.
Flight
Tonight I’m tripping over
all the words I used to write
like I’m walking on ice
in cheap boots.
The only thing keeping
me from breaking
anything is the training
I got growing up.
I learned how to fall
without breaking
and that’s a gift I’ll need
if I want to walk
this path I’m on.
Forget walking.
I was hiking on ice
yesterday and there
were geese flying
in the icy
rain, far above the ice
of earth and the need
for boots, migrating–
not falling. I shouldn’t
be jealous of geese
but the truth is I yearn
for magnetism,
for certainty,
for immunity to falling
and for a voice that
carries without faltering.
The Artist
November
lets me go reluctantly
each year.
I’m her work of art,
a lonely sculpture
in a community garden.
I was made one year
just as she gave up
her last rays of sunlight
and each year
she returns to the garden
to reinvent me.
Some years, she paints
over rusted spots
and leaves me brighter.
Some years, she tears
off the ivy that grows
in spring and summer.
Truth is, I like the vines,
but I am November’s
creation,
and each year,
I must be changed.
The Write Life 