light shoulders

As every day of autumn passes,

Something that was weighing heavy on my shoulders 

floats away

I expect by winter I will be as light as a feather,

Drift up the air and then come down
with the snow to break my fall

here

here is a memory
holding your breath under the water
sending bubbles to the surface like messengers
chlorine burning open eyes and wrinkly finger tips

here is a moment
talking until you fell asleep
waking up with someone to tell your dreams to
sleeping bags and whispered secrets

here is a mystery
rushing towards something but not knowing what
knowing the future is always one step ahead
worried nights and favorite daydreams

summer night

I. 

It was the first night of summer and her skin itched with the mosquito bites she hadn't gotten yet. It was the last night of summer and her mind itched for new possibilities. She never understood why they didn't celebrate the end of August the way they did the end of December, with fireworks and music and kisses at midnight. This part always felt like a more fitting time for resolutions, this was the true new year. This time, summer had gotten an extension of sorts, a deadline delayed, a few extra weeks of limbo that hardly counted, really, because they would be spent alone. 

II.

She was thinking about the sky when it gets beautiful and big and makes you feel like the top of the rollercoaster, a small drop in your stomach, she could fall in. 

Like a good song that makes you miss your exit, keep driving on the highway, on a journey without a destination, is this what it means to get lost in the music? 

Like writing endlessly, with no limits, and no fear. Suddenly everything is inspiration. 

III.

She thinks love is bigger then even the sky, because no matter how far she goes it stays the same.

words and words and words

want to write more poetry because i know it’s good for my soul

like yoga, or foot massages, or laughter

i want to perfect an craft i’ve always felt most comfortable in, but leave neglected

a blanket i only pull out on the worst days

i want to be the girl with poetry in the notes section of her phone, fragments, words, over heard conversations

“you’re making us look like amateurs here!”

“mother would like this”

“can we get tea”

i want to be poet, claim the term like sorceress, heroine, an identity marker

i want words to be my currency

and everyday be pay day

i want to write i want to write i want to break down every dam inside of me 

every reminder of MLA format every math formula everything that built the walls that kept my poetry in i am Poet, Heroine, Sorceress

my favorite songs are the ones that start slow

same with kisses, and friendships, and memories

my favorite ideas are the ones that come fast

sitting up in the middle of the night heart pounding

my mind feels best when it gets to race

words and words and words

blessings

to the girl in the park who said she liked my glasses

i hope that your fruit is always perfectly ripe, and that you never skin your knees

to the man who held the door open for me yesterday

i hope your favorite songs on the radio finish just as you’re pulling into your driveway, and you never misplace your keys

to the cashier that called me honey and smiled wide

i hope your favorite tv shows are never cancelled prematurely, and your feet never fall asleep

to the universe, in total

i hope you soon find peace

a kind of nervous

being on the cusp of life is like

standing in line for the diving board

the kind of nervous that comes when

you don’t know what to fear exactly

because when you try to imagine what’s next

there’s an emptiness

the space below the surface that you can’t quite picture

a daily routine that you can’t yet know

and being ready to jump

but having to wait

your turn

without you

i stood tiptoe and reached high

put you on a pedestal and left you there

proceeded to spend years

trying to be enough, to join you

but indifference cannot be pleased

you didn’t so much fall off as

crumble away

and when i noticed

i climbed up to assess the damage

and found i liked the view 

this is how sunsets make me feel

1. like i’ve swallowed a sweet hot tea, and my tongue is still tingling
2. like i need to tell the sun, personally, how good a job she’s doing
3. like if i just keep going i’ll find a place that’s soft
4. like i’m small, but safe
5. like the day couldn’t be that bad, to have such an exit
6. like the darkness must be starstruck, to have such an opening act

this is about blood

is it okay to hate your body if it’s only once a month?

is it okay if your body feels like it’s hating you back?

twisting in on itself 

from your core 

making you sweaty, and slow, 

and sore

this, feels like The Flood

maybe it is, a cycle that

keeps humanity going

eventually

but not this time

this, is about blood

and survival

i’ve touched your heart

and i will not harm you

you will be fine

is it okay to love your body now, even now, after all this time?

because even the pain feels like proof, 

and power, 

and life

16

i know you like your eggs sunny side up

and driving with the windows down

and turning the bass up high

and feeding stray cats

i know you hold on to what you love tightly

wearing holes in your favorite socks

and giving out second chances

i know the way your shoulders tense in traffic

and the way they relax against your pillow

i know you, your scent, your dreams, your fears

your eyes, your nose, your ears 

we’re in sync; 

we reach out arms to steady each other when one of us wobbles, 

or sometimes, fall down together, laugh at our own tears, get up again, keep going

back and better and better then ever and it’s always true and truer

a season of words, both heavy and hollow

I

Everything is supposed to be golden but I think I’ve turned to lead

Heavy, drowning, in a mess of sheets and sighs

I remember the light and

Turn it off instead

II

I always start to feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome

Someone screaming - get me out of here- out of now

“Next!” calls the lady at the desk

III

Swallow some honey for that cough but it doesn’t taste sweet

Deadlines start to make my throat dry

It’s dangerous to think of a person as a forever

They’ll start appearing while you sleep

IV

Free to float or swim under bright lights

I dream I am in a petri dish

 Under observation

They can read my movements but not my mind

V

Shells and balloons are both filled with air

But we only call one hollow

VI

And the song goes He holds the whole world, in his hands

My hands lack such responsibility

They grasp at empty air

VII

Gravity promises all will fall

Makes no claims about falling into place

VIII

You’re never finished

Just out of time

Love Bug

I don't know how I ever looked at you and felt anything but butterflies 

because now they are a permanent part of my guts they teach my heart how to flutter and my soul how to fly. 

and I

close my eyes and see you in dreams

wake up content with my reality 

and I 

catch feelings like something contagious during cold season 

but you make me feel warm and fuzzy inside

and I'm

sneezing spreading these feelings into the public eye 

and when they say bless you

I know I'm already blessed with you

so I

take candid pictures of you 

and write poems I don't know how to end 

trying to bottle up this feeling

of a love-bug-boy-friend

lucky

I spent a decade of my life looking through patches of clover

If I had ever found an extra leaf the hunt would be over

I'm not sure what I thought would happen to me

But it seemed it could never hurt to be a little more lucky

Though a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow would have been better

Maybe all I ever wanted was a change in the weather

A four leaf clover is an abnormality that I never did see

But all the same life has been astoundingly good to me 

 

the lesson of the lillypad

said the tadpole to his favorite pond

"i will never know a love like you"

said the frog upon his lilly pad

"what you say is true"

"you will never love,

like you did before"

"but you will love your lillypad

in ways different, new, and more"

not the poem i want to write tonight

i want to write poetry that opens blind eyes to empathy and tells a story but time isn't on my side and so i just leave you with one pathetic run on line and the promise of maybe tomorrow

this is monday morning

stumble out of bed into hot shower and check your texts
hands on the steering wheel and green lights and next

you're early enough to get a good spot
wet hair in the parking lot

blink repeatedly and drink water to stay awake
cold war and air pollution and passé composé 

bad posture and little enthusiasm 
the cafeteria is too loud for conversation  
in passing periods check your phone 
count down minutes until you go home 

thunder

i dreamed i was dying, gasped for breath and woke up to thunder

rubbed groggy eyes and heard the rattling drumbeat of life

i am mostly water that circulates throughout earth & history and
makes me a mystery and never stagnant but sometimes asleep 

there's a moment

there's a moment where i feel like i'm in a movie because you could not be anything but a star and we are spinning and everything else blurs

your forehead is against mine and my feet hurt in the very best way and it's hard to stop smiling when all i see is you 

courtyards become palaces and i'd show you the courtesy and curtsy to be your queen there's a moment and it's like infinity 

April

gave me life 

light after 

dark times

beautiful 

though stormy too

still dependable 

and true

trying to write about a feeling

you're hearing the song with your ears but feeling it in your chest
you're sliding between clean sheets

your cheeks hurt from smiling
your stomach is sore from laughing

you're waking up to the smell cinnamon rolls baking
you're finishing your new favorite book, and staring at the ceiling until your mind stops reeling

your tongue is tickled with cotton candy
your throat feels rough from singing at the top of your lungs, and from the bottom of them too

you're racing down the sidewalk; you won't be the rotten egg today
you're winning the class game of Jeopardy; take that other side of the room

your fingers are sticky from melting pop-sickles
your freckles are starting to show in the sun

you're trying to write about about a feeling
you're remembering why you're alive