Daily Prompt: Wonder/030918

Do you ever wonder what would have happened

if we could have made it work?

If we really had tried everything?

We gave up too soon, I know that.

And I still wonder if it will be me and you

again.

I have hope.

And I’ll always carry that hope,

in my backpack full of bricks,

that I’ll save because they’re ours

to build on.

I’m strong enough to carry more,

more than these bricks and more than my hope;

tell me everything and I’ll carry your tears

next to your joy.

I hope you wonder about me,

I hope you carry hope.

 

In reponse to

Wonder

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Untitled/021917

Tell me about him.
He was sixteen once,
but then again, maybe he’s only ever been
sixteen.
He loves motorcycles.
And women,
three women.
One me.
Ink under skin, all over.
Vaguely remember owls,
screech owls.
Cigarettes,
the taste of tobacco on his lips.
The scent of bourbon
as he exhales into my hair.
Rough hands rest gently
on me.
A motorcycle accident,
I lived it a thousand times
before it ever happened.
“You hungry?” and “How are you?”
Whispers in the middle of the night
between arms
that keep holding on.
Promises to our children
that we’ll do the best we can
and then try to do better,
and those same promises
are for me too.
He’s twenty-five, a good man.

Motorcycle Reflections/021217

It’s like running in the wind and the cool night air.
And I can feel your body-heat between my thighs;
that’s how I know I could never ride with someone who didn’t love me.
The city lights look so beautiful,
and I’ve seen them before.
I’ve seen them before,
but not like this.
Every stop sign, the warmth of the engine escapes into my jacket.
Not everyone who rides dies.
And I guess that’s why
it’s not “ride and die,”
but “ride or die”
because could we ever really live
if motor oil didn’t flow thru our veins?
I wish there was a tape recorder
in my brain so I could capture every thought,
every line of this poem
written on the back of your bike,
terrified, safe, home
on the back of your bike,
bought on accident, bought on credit.
Contrast: the wind rips into me
uninvited, unwelcome, unwanted.
But who ever really wanted the wind?
Maybe the wind is the world’s breath,
reminding us we’re alive,
on the back of everything we’ve ever hated.
And I’m not in love with motorcycles,
just in love with a different part of you.

*NOTE: I wrote this poem sometime around midnight or 1 a.m., 15-ish hours later I was in a motorcycle accident, my very first accident. Do I still feel the same about motorcycles as I did as I wrote this poem? Of course.

Ode to Lost Gloves/020417

I’m sorry you were lost and left behind
I’d pick you all up and make you
Into a sculpture if I wasn’t so lazy
My heart breaks for you
For your soft fingers
That will never be filled with flesh again
Your owners have gone on with their lives
They will not remember you
Instead they’ll buy another pair
At Kmart
Because that’s what they do
Consume
Consume
Consume
That’s what we all do
Lose something, we buy another
What will happen when the gloves are all gone?
No one ever loses a pair
Only one at a time
Except I do know someone
Who lost a pair, more than once
If hearts were like gloves, we’d all be broken
Maybe hearts are gloves, two are useful together, they make sense
One without the other will always just be lost.

Patronus/Lumos

The silver doe,
I want it tattooed
on my right forearm.
Of course “Always.”
written underneath.
It’s a nod to Severus’ love
for Lily,
but also my love
for you.
And deer earned a place
in my heart long ago,
when we moved
to a tiny little town
named for the skins
that men hung there.
But I’ve never seen
the animal on this mountain;
others say they have.
I saw them more often
in the city where we met,
at the school where we met.
So really this docile creature
intersected my soul
long before
the house on Comanche Drive,
long before I knew
how Severus loved Lily,
long before I picked a tiny reindeer
to hang on a tiny tree,
long before I became
anonymous.
But now the world can know
my name
and later they’ll know me
by the mark on my arm,
the Life Mark,
the Love Mark.

Cigarettes: How to Keep Your Guard Up Around Non-Smokers/122416

You promised me the world,
when the world wasn’t yours to give away.
You promised me everything,
when you had next to nothing.
A broken boy whose love
always had conditions,
I just forgot to see them,
until your love was no longer mine.
I’ve always thought
I could win you back,
that if I love you hard enough
you’ll forget not to love me.
You said you were gonna buy me a book;
you never ask me to leave
as I crawl into your bed some time before dawn.
Sometimes you hold me
so damn tight, I can’t move.
Or when you trace every inch
of my body with your fingertips,
interlace you fingers with mine,
make me feel alive,
perfect,
safe,
beautiful.
If that isn’t love,
then I don’t know what the fuck is.
A broken boy, trying so damn hard
to be a man.
I wonder if my love
will show you how to grow up.
Or will it keep you
broken?

Duck, Duck, Goose, and We Go Around Merrily/120416

People don’t build relationships.
Relationships build themselves,
often accidentally.
That’s the beauty of it.
And last night
I saw the Christmas lights
on your bedroom curtains.
It reminded me of a dream
I once had about us.
It was the one with the stars,
billions of them and the distance
between us that didn’t exist.
The distance does not exist,
except when you create it.
This distance you fabricate
to keep yourself safe.
But I could keep you
safe,
or at least try my damnedest
to.
On the nights no one’s looking
we look like we fit,
as you curl your body
around me
and I’ve stopped wearing socks to bed
just to feel your cold feet.
Sometimes you call me baby
or interlace your fingers with mine,
those are the moments
you forget what we are
and get lost
in what we could be.
You can keep calling a duck
a goose,
but she knows what she is.

incompatible

20161024_185542

they’ve got nothing in common except the straw
and maybe the way their insides look
but still they make a cute pair
as they sit side by side
in front of a fire
that hasn’t burned in a while
and his face is the color
of her dress
as if she colored him that way
he’s tattered and torn
she’ll offer to mend him
and sweep his floors
hoping he’ll remember
she is his home