poetry

Fairweather Fan

I imagined the person belonging
to the other end of the wrong number
from Box Elder Montana,
as the stacks of clean underwear
grew on the edge of the bed.
A man with a broken collarbone
and a mid-atlantic mother,
a tattoo of a time glass
and a nickname like Rover,
ate an herloom tomato
and handed me your boxer shorts.
I would let him unbraid my hair, too aware

of what it implied,
like when people slow dance to jazz
because they know it’s going to end,
like the Culture Cub album coming back on mid-song
after the electricty has been out for days,
like how I knew by the way
you turned down the hearing aid
you kept embedded in your heart
everytime I rinsed out my nature
so you could see the wet light
coming through, that you

were only a fairweather fan,
waiting for my dark days
so you could fill a trash bag
with my merchandise
and leave it on the loading dock
behind the Goodwill on the northside
during your lunch hour on a Wednesday,
any Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Paper Cup

My hair turned red
with every exhale you offered
as we read The Oddyssey from the bottom shelf.
With my finger on the map
we followed the rivers,
like blue veins in cheeses I can’t afford.

Drinking wine from a paper cup,
as the Rapture left saddle shoes
inside a haunt of wild violets.
The nape of my neck was a diving board
and you, afraid of water
remembered nothing
but the bonfire in my breath.

xxxx

Ugly Shoes

After the storm
the organs of daylillies
tasted like metal to the branches
thrown down by the postcard of Niagra Falls
you sent to the world
after our phantom commencement.

Tassles stuck in the ribcage
of the barrel,
we abbreviated ourselves
so we could both fit inside.
Our diplomas were dog tags,
as I contemplated dying at the bottom
of Bridal Veil in ugly shoes.

xxxxx

Toddler Toes

I never liked you
in corduroy pants,
or understood your obsession
with Tudor style houses and acid rain,
having sex in the bed
of someone else’s pickup truck.

But I would still plant you a pear tree
and laugh at your punchlines,
like buddha bells on a doorframe,
ringing with every ghost
that would pass and share our sheets,
cold toddler-toes
that would never wake us up
on Sunday morning.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Life Jackets

I closed my eyes as you traced letters
with purpose onto my palm,
guessing tortoise when you misspelled turquoise.
We waited for the moon to vomit blood,
knowing what you wanted to spell
was not orange juice or January,
but oh, baby don’t hurt me.

There was nothing sexy
about the twin bed from your boyhood,
not even its sincerity.
Not even the fresh linen
that made my skin
struggle against itself
until there was nothing else to do
but to get out of it entirely,
your whisky breath on my wrist
your pants on the doorknob.

You forgot your dress socks on our bedspread,
and I regretted the wrinkled black skirt.
You held my hand during the service
as they read W.H. Auden and told
the Arizona story,
but I couldn’t find a pulse.

I rewrote the historical markers,
changing their dates to our dates,
their history to our fairytale,
remembering when you used to slow down
so I could memorize the heroes,
imagine petticoats and count canal locks,
our dialogue replaced with the engine
of your uncle’s El Camino.

Making lists like life jackets,
as though muffin mix and coffee
would keep the salt out of our mouths.
We talked about movies like strangers,
avoiding each other’s eyes
as the check out girl tapped out the baseline
to What is Love? with a candy cane.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Carole Ann

He remembered the blueberries
more than the vanilla on her collarbone,
or the toothpaste on her pillow,
more than her Sunday morning laugh,
or the yellow tarragon in the driveway
she forgot by July.

He remembered the blueberries
more than the peach,
the one whose skin he turned into a globe,
licking the length between
her T. Rex records and hosiery
and his guns and missing buttons,
two knuckles and a thumb
of sweet continents and oceans
the color of apricot blood.

He didn’t register the mud,
or capsize in the rippling humidity.
He didn’t recognize the release
of his own heart in his hand.

He smelled the blueberries,
not the buttercups
above her empty lungs and widow’s peak
fertilized by irony
that should have put his
dirty nails and dog tags
in an oak box in Delaware instead.

He tasted the blueberries
from the ice cream he bought
for two quarters and dime
from the red haired girl who killed tarragon
and never learned to play guitar,
or how to swim alone at night.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

field guide

i made a list of all the beds i have slept in
i started at the ocean and made my way to you
i cataloged the flannel sheets
that smelled like coffee beans and book spines
i considered the mattress in halifax
that cried as i dreamed of sinking ships
and thunderstorms in the woods

i cherished the eggshell padding in cincincatti
like a locker combination in a love letter
and wrote a eulogy for the pullout couch in virginia
where we collected arrowheads from the earth
and talked about henry lee

i told you about the plastic air
where i fell asleep under the outline of chrysanthemums
the geometry of sunlight
on the open suitcase
from the slats above my head

and i remembered the bed
twenty miles from montreal
where i realized we were just ghosts setting alarm clocks
as though morning mattered
as though it could crack a yolk onto the tree line
twenty miles from where you told me
it would always be okay

i saved
punta gorda for last
the chlorine on the pillowcase
the tangerines that seemed to grow
from the bottom of the bowl
stationed on the kitchen counter
the fireworks i never saw on new years eve

and i folded it tight
my bed biography
and cut all the details
like battlescars
and opened my timeline
layer by layer by fold
to reveal a string of snowflakes
you can hang from your headboard
a flag for my ceasefire
a field guide for my soul

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Dissonance

it wasn’t the cigarette smoke
or the water ring from the glass of ice wine
from paso robles seven years ago
disappearing into the threadbare armrest
that told the sailor’s daughter
it was time to go home

it wasn’t the town bells playing never been to spain
in an offbeat minor key
at 3:17 a.m. for no reason other than to feel
their clappers in their shells
to be reminded that morning
will not become a deadbeat dad

it wasn’t the croatian flag saluting itself
or the smell of toner ink and fig
wafting from your corner office
or chagall’s rosy cheeked fiddler
sitting in the sky
its swan song falling
from the long thin strings

it was the wonder bread jesus
with his hot roller hair
dull brown and relatable
rolling a pair of onyx dice
between his lifeline and thumbprint
as though if he snapped his colorless fingers
the snake eyes would burst into a homing pigeon
with wanderlust in its wings
and a leg without a message

it was the wonder bread jesus
making the chinese character for electricity
with his pinky on the map of his warm, cinnamon breath
that grew from the center of the kitchen window
as he sighed about the weather
and property taxes in maine

but it wasn’t really electricity
no, it was the character for cockcrow
which told the sailor’s daughter
it was time to kiss the healthy scratch goodnight
and toss the coin from the year she lost her virginity
into the breath he was done with
letting gravity decide

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The Stray Cat Sits

the stray cat sits on the little front porch
and tries on her name like a wedding ring
not lola, or precious
not persephone, or eartha kitt
but gabriel garcia marquez
fits her warm disposition
and her avocado eyes

she takes up court with the lily of the valley
a bulls eye in the consummate green
their tiny white blossoms like bonnets or bells
their curled edges like an old man’s mustache
like your maternal grandfather’s mustache
the one you never met

she watches the presbyterian woman across the street
with the denim skirt and habitual bow
carry in her groceries fast
to avoid the cool fat drops of spring rain
the blue plastic bags weighed down
by a dozen grade A eggs
hefty jars of classic ragu
and an apocalyptic amount of toilet paper
she watches the woman hesitate with the final bag
wrapped tight around a rectangular package
as though that salmon will be special enough
to light a fire whose ashes
have long blown away

she stiffens at the sound of the metro bus
a slow growing roar, a sudden hiss
a PSA on prostate cancer in yellow block writing
beneath a boy with a straight brimmed hat
looking out the window at the little front porch
with the cat named gabriel like a gargoyle
black and white and standing guard

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Box Score

He cut the lime through its equator
with his father’s pocketknife.
He split it open in his hand
and gave me half,
pointing to the center
where the hour and minute hands connect,
telling me that’s where we should start
our search for gold.

We unpeeled the letters to our names,
adding up the numbers corresponding to each sound.
We decided I was older than Montana
and he was younger than Motown.
We split the difference east of Fargo,
writing out our constitution
on the back of a box score,
our signatures tracing my knee bone.

He compared me to a barn owl,
rearranging his limbs so I could fit inside.
I told him mice made me sweat,
that I left the bedroom door open two inches
so I could swallow the light from the hall.
He reminded me that Send in the Clowns
wasn’t about a circus,
and we waited for Cancer with our naked eyes.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Alone, Center Stage

my mind is swimming
swimming in thought
i don’t know how to sieve through
my nature, my soul
is being broken against
these circumstances
like a feral atlantic wave
just beginning to find its stride
against a cemetery of rocks
jagged enough to kill

my very being is being scraped
again and again
in a twisted tribal rhythm
with a fresh piece of sandpaper
as long as the distance between
the coffee cup i wish
i was drinking
from that café
in historic halifax
to saturn’s deepest ring
in a galaxy
we’ve just begun to know

my confusion is strangling me
like a ghost with unfinished business
or a seven minute
cello solo
played by a scorned lover
alone, center stage

my compass has been commandeered
i’ve been left to search for pieces from
the things making up the wreckage
a windowsill
a pantry door
to hold on to before
it’s too late to keep
my head above water

my resilience is focusing on
these hardwood floors
the abundant light
through these leave
worthy of thoreau
the comfort of an oversized chair
this second can of diet pepsi
cold and unquestioning

my heart is growing
a garden of roses
fickle and thorny
and searching for the sun
strange and unpredictable
beautiful and alive
almost human
in its complexity
its ever-sprawling flaws

my gut is silent
my stomach is screaming
my eyes are waiting
waiting to see the signal of flame
on that far off peak
instructing
my hands
to let this final beacon burn

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Sand


the sand is not the answer
not the confessional
the doctor
the saint
the sand is not the answer
it is the question beneath the
vibrato in the upper balcony
in the fallen crust from the
triangle of wonder bread
grape & white & almost stale

the sand didn’t let me write
didn’t let me speak
or watch
or sing
the sand didn’t let me write
it blew across my page like
tiny piece of time
crusty & grainy & almost raw
with every crossword ripping burst
of seventeen mile per hour wind

the sand is not the end
not the eulogy
the swan song
the credits
the sand is not the end
it is the madre drive mantra
it is the closest thing to walking on water
after the ice of the pond in cole habour
or dancing with the carpenter’s son

the sand forgot my number
forgot my sunflowers
my second round of 1051

the sand forgave my mother
forgave my lover
my wise rocking owl

the sand is not the answer
but it is now my second skin
it is the twitching red arrow
pointing north by northeast
it is the thing that keeps
the first domino from tipping
and making this tragedy
leak & ebb &
ebb & sink

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Empty Picture Frames

some days i wake up melancholy
other days i wake up pale green
today i touched the piano
and made music with just my hands
my hands and slippery ivory
with no glance at the brittle sheet music
without years of ten dollar lessons
on wednesday nights at eight

some nights i fall asleep out at the lake
convinced the stars are getting closer
with every rock of waves
you sent my way with the smallest gray pebble
from two thousand miles away

and eventually they are going to
pierce my heart, right,
these stars colored in with primary yellow
with five uneven points
in no hurry to die

some mornings i hear the bells
other mornings i hear balloons
popping on the ceiling
hear an entire school year’s worth of pencils
tumbling down the stairs
awake to the sound of an earthquake
loosening the thumbtacks on the map
of places i’ve planted oleanders

sending them scattering
like marbles across the floor
congregating under the dishwasher
waiting for new instructions

some evenings i speak in french
speak in past tense
speak in smoke signals
filling the dining room with heat and ash
the feathers of ancestors
who’ve turned into the ravens
outside your window when you dream

right now i am not afraid of
chartreuse sorrow
or a slowly bleeding heart
the silence after the bells have stopped
or dead mice left at my door
for i am content to see
the reflection of my soul
in all the empty picture frames
i’ve now replaced with light

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

All The Maddened Painters

if i died tomorrow would
i be the next anne frank?
or simply discontinue
like seven fifty nine
on a tuesday morning
surrendering to eight a.m.?
how green is a field in galway
nearest to the persuasive shore?
and if i bought
this pen all over again
would i be
able to write poetry
as though i never stopped
as though the moon
had never set
and it was night evermore?

these are the questions
missing answers
like a child without a mother
a chorus without a verse
a winter without a new years
a broken limb
without the hurt

and could i measure ambivalence
if i stared hard enough into your eyes?
could i become fluent in french
if i read
a thousand rimbauds in
his salty, native tongue?
or listened to that song
as the world
was going to end
the one about the rose
the rose and anxious love

& if i lost my breath or
my breath lost me
like a dog
a wild dog
finally pulled free
from its leash
would discrimination make sense?
time zones and
howard hughes the same?

could i
get a kite to catch the sky
and ride
and ride past gabriel
maybe michael
all my restless faceless ancestors
who helped me
get my name
and all the maddened painters
fallen kings
and even anne frank

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

I Can Play The Cello

i can play the cello
did i ever tell you that?
i can untie an anchor with my tongue
fill up a jar with sap
while standing far enough away
from the bark and trunk and shade
that you could fit
if you tried
the years of gloom you sew into the collar
of your shirt you pull over each day

did i ever tell you i ran for president
ran for president and won
did i ever tell you i named all the oceans
invented time and coasters and all songs
written in d flat
written on the back
of receipts and junk mail
and window shades
the cat bats open when
it’s time to light the lamps

i’ve picked a bouquet of four leaf clovers
have i ever let you count them all
ever told you i can hold my breath under water
longer than it takes
a surgeon to
remove a tumor
a janitor to mop
the floor of
the national cathedral
longer than it takes
a couple to make love

i was there when the berlin wall fell
there when mario lifted the cup the
second year in a row
did i tell you i watched bobby be assassinated
and applauded sarah vaughan’s
first and final bows

and i can play the cello
did i ever tell you that?
tell you my name is actually andromeda
on wednesdays
betty on the last sunday of the month
and t.s. eliot when it rains

have i ever shown you my scars
the scars i got in korea

have i ever whispered to you in gaelic
or russian or sung you a lullaby in dutch

because i can
because i have and will

i can spot a fake diamond
and make truffles
that would make you cry
i can ski with my eyes closed
and change the color of the sky

did i ever tell you
did i ever show you
did i ever love you
enough to deserve
you believing
completely
inveterately
and maybe
even empirically
every word i say

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Tulip Brains

if i were to find
my song in amsterdam and
mail it to you so
you would know
what it sounds like
for me to be alive
i would put it in
an envelope as wide
as both my palms
pressing side by side
and i’d make it long
enough to stack the
begonia pots of my
great grandmother
muted purple and red &
dirty pastel blue
one and then the next
and then maybe it
could hold my song
i found in amsterdam
and that followed me
back to my porch
with my great grandmother
at the helm and

maybe it would sound
like a phoenix at a funeral
playing before blazing
and then standing
up in the ash
or maybe it would
taste like the metal
of an earring with
silver dangles and
blooming heirlooms
& maybe it would
look like the veins
you can see fraying

within the string
that marks my place
in this notebook
that never brakes
even under the pounds
of ink and parallels
and layers of letters
and tape and the
page i saved for
my song and its treble clef
that scrapes itself
with a needle into you
as it has into me
and i know this because
i sent it to you
and you are the only
one that could receive
my envelope ten fingers wide
and four generations tall
my envelope
that has traces of
porcelain and toast
of bicycle lanes and
crushed tulip brains
and your name
your name
your name
& your coast

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Every Last Starfish

i miss you right now
i miss you with a longing
stripped of metaphors
and polaroids
of paper hearts ripped down the center
doves in flight
rose petals strewn

i miss you right now
god i miss you right now
with a yearning
stripped of similes
like a whippoorwill’s song
like a dawn without a sun
a woefulness as deep as the bering sea

i miss you right now
miss you something fierce
and i would miss you even
harder longer louder
if my head wasn’t presently on fire
wasn’t burning to a crisp
from the torch i’ve been carrying
that i forgot to keep up
high high higher
than my elbow can reach
higher than orion
higher than your smile

i miss you right now
the fact is
i miss you every now
i miss you
love you
remember you
cherish you
dread you
compare you
curse you
want you
trace you
debase you
indulge you
dream you
deceive you
recognize
sterilize
adore
abhor
you you you

and you don’t know do you
that i miss you so much right now i’ve lost
my keys
my clothes
my sanity
my evening sky and promises
my maps and wallet and harmonies
my passwords and breakfast and lethargy

and you’d think i’d get over this, right
this distilled anguish almost ankle deep
i’d pack up my tent
leave the rest
mail the excess to my future self
to remind myself
where i’ve come from
and where i’ve left to go

but no
i miss you right now
miss everything about you
from your atoms to your adam’s apple
from your errors to your earlobes
and all the intermittent lullabies
you sing to all your demons
when it’s time to go to sleep

i miss you right now
i’ve
taken to bleeding inwardly
i’ve cleaned and lied and pruned
and decided
to stop missing you
too many times to count because
two twinkle lights rarely blink
at the same time
two stars seldom die
on the same rhyme
but we did
but we did

i miss you right now
but it’s time to come back from the brink
time to say aloha and goodnight
time to extinguish my hair
let the air
out of the hot air balloon
i sent up into the sky
announcing i miss you! i miss you!

for all the world to see
for the world and orion
and every last starfish
on the bottom of the bering sea

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The Potomac

i’m not going to play your cello anymore
it can stay tilted back, towards the sky
the sky the color your geography would look
like if i blew through it
like the sticky film dispatched
from a bubble wand
when summer is fully unfurled

and i’m not going to weave this tapestry anymore
in cold waiting that burns like anguish would
if it physically could
i’m going to leave each layer in each night
and not tear it clean with the harsh, ginger morning

i’m not going to save a match for you anymore
keep the tiny white knight on the table by my bed
guarding and disarming in a torrid, singular way
and wait too long to bring out my queen
because deep down i’d rather lose my king

i’m not going to write my heart’s constitution anymore
sign your signature below it a thousand times over
in a july that made heat that could strip the paint from the walls
just to feel your name in my hand

i’m not going to tag the trunks of trees with detour signs anymore
to navigate through your boulevards and dead ends
that vary depending on the anatomy of the snowflake
that happens to fall on you that day

i’m not going to write poems anymore
i’m going to light them on fire instead
i’m going to bind their verses and appendages to cement
and drop them into the potomac

i’m going to slide them through a shredder
and let someone else reconstruct my heart with
all the columns in all the wrong places
and all the similes old and done

note: these poems belong to me. thank you.