Poetry

Though once I saw bronze statues worn to gold
As trapped by mortal hands whose touch consumes
(I too spent years as long and still and cold
Rubbed wrong and made to shine in crowded rooms)

The air that moves our lungs itself corrodes
Our armor rusts us in our lonely place
Another's palm in ours does not erode--
It polishes a glow too soon erased

This world our own wears down nerves taut and thin
One fact can change your all if you'll allow:
Though we may grate against each others' skin
We keep each other gold as we know how

All statues, one by one, will serve the birds
But we were bright as copper, tin, and words

I carry myself through the museum
I leave my backpack at the front desk
(It has my bottled water inside)
But I still keep my phone in my pocket
In case I need it for something

I can hardly contain myself
So much of us has survived
Bowls and jars and ceremonial urns
Greek amphorae and Moche stirrup spouts
I circle my way through each exhibit
And my branching path is lined with vessels

They are all Good Shapes
Variations on a theme of round
Some are even still sealed
Their substance long since settled
They have circled the world to be here
Carried as cargo on much larger vessels
By the currents of empire and the hands of scholars
Bartered and smuggled and broken to pieces
Many have gone through the fire twice
Now a silent collection under tempered glass sheets

I can feel the pulse in my forehead
And in my hands
As my blood carries its cargo
A constant circulation
I'm glad I am here to pay my respects
But I can hardly contain myself
To see them all here and made to rest
I feel something beginning to pour ot
A substance long since settled
Pounds against its seal

I learned the other day that
As we grew in the currents 
It was blood before bone
We carry the ocean inside of us
The water in our veins is
The best way our bodies have found
To move what we need where we need it
When we needed to move
We packed up our lungs with blood vessels
And away we went to the coast

I carry bottled water wherever I go
I have made my own bowls on a turning wheel
Centering was the hardest part
But with practice, my hands made a perfect circle
And they joined together with all the hands
That have come before mine

So I know what I mean when I say
Vessels are not made to rest
But to fill and to pour and to fill again
A constant circulation
From hand to hand
And place to place
To move what we need where we need it

I buy a little vase to take with me
It is a Good Shape, almost perfectly round
When I pick up my backpack, I place it gently within
And as I walk toward the train that will carry me home
I think of where I will put it
And what I will carry inside

Worn down again another year
By this millstone heart
Each time it turns
It takes off one more
Layer of skin
A little bit faster
Than it can grow back

The whole arm aches
From going in circles
The sun rises and sets
In its own rotation
Solstice to solstice
The days are getting longer
But the pressure stays the same

Now the dust of me 
Is fine enough
To sift through my fingers
Or the filter of a respirator
Breathe it in deep
Fill up my lungs
With hourglass sand

Worn down again another year
In these limestone ribs
Each tide they bear
Floods every nerve
Carving a canyon
A little bit deeper
Than they can repair

The whole space shakes
From saltwater cycles
The moon pushes and pulls
In its own old phases
Whole face to no face
The days are getting shorter
Til the ocean makes her claim

Now the cave of me
Is large enough 
To capture an echo
Or the promise of a stable structure
Tear it apart
All that I built
While it still stands

The tides come in
The sun goes down
The millstone turns

The organ grinder's curse
Of which will hurt the most
To play one song forever
Or to play the final note

I went to grad school in the middle of nowhere
I drove an hour each way
West in the morning
East at night
The sun in my rear view mirror
Corn fields trailing behind me
A lone ship through a rippling green sea

I would come home too late to see them
But in the morning
If I was very lucky
I caught a glimpse of them as I sped past the farm
And I told myself it would be a good day

Another routine within another routine
I didn't mind the drive, not really
Not with my music
And a chance to see horses

That was already 10 years ago
And the weight of the miles in between 
That great expanse where *then* leads to *now*
Finds me in a new land
Unrecognizable
Somehow still
Somehow settled
Somehow happy

We bought a house in the middle of nowhere
I drive an hour to work each morning
With the sun in my eyes
I pass three different horse farms
Which at first felt like cheating
As though any of us could deserve a horse

The weight of those miles in between
I was the one who drove them
With the wind in my hair
My hands on the wheel
And nothing to move toward
Except the chance that tomorrow
There would be horses

I.
I read once that there is a room
That is as quiet as we can make it
Until all that is left is the music of your body
The bright trill of electric nerves firing
The dull thud as your heart keeps time
A bacterial choir sings to its host
In your dark holy gut
And you can just make out the words
By the time they pull you out
Before their song is the last thing you ever hear

There is no such thing as silence
Cold comfort on my loudest days
When every noise is made directly at me
With malice aforethought
The call of a starling outside my window
Puts the "vulgar" in  sturnus vulgaris 
A railway spike in my middle ear
Hammered briskly at irregular intervals
TAP TAP

II.
In winter it was the snow plows
Now that it's spring
The mowers are worse
An invading army of charioteers
I can tell exactly where each one is
With the certainty of Hannibal, of Alexander
Tracing their battalion's advance through this subdivision
I don't need to see the green carnage in their wake
To know their position down to the house number

"Should I turn on the fan?"

It is a very thoughtful question
I am trying to tell you "no"
My jaw clenches and shifts
When it's as bad as this
My birdcage throat keeps the sound caught tight

But I can't tell you anything
I'm too busy trying to press my whole body through the mattress
Through the basement and the sewer main and the Earth's crust
To somewhere even the HOA can't reach
There won't be grass, but by god

There won't be anyone there to mow it

III.
According to Cicero
The mind of an orator is a palace
Where every place holds a fact
Every fact in its place
Close your eyes as you walk through the vestibule
Past a small periodic table
Covered in atomic weights
And a map of the world
With capital cities circled in red

The method of loci is the best way to remember
Everything you might need to say
To a crowd of friends, of Romans, of countrymen
Everything you might need to say afterwards
To a licensed therapist

TAP TAP

I am not afraid to call myself an orator
Still, my mind is more of an open field
The grass grows tall, the roots dig deep
And every thought is a bright-eyed bird

Of course they are starlings
I didn't choose them
And they didn't choose here
Let loose for the love of Shakespeare
And then left to our own devices

After years I learned that they were too fast to trap
I would trip if I chased them
But if I sit very still
They come to me when they're ready
Eat the offerings I bring in my open hands
Sometimes they even approach patience
As I line them up by height, by weight
Before circling off in threes and fours
A full stanza in flight

The past isn't as heavy when it's a fact
I know my pain the same way I know
The Latin name for a European starling
When I weigh my heart against its feather
They feel exactly the same

Sometimes even I approach peace
TAP TAP


IV.
I wish there was such a thing as white noise
How novel it would be
To have two sounds cancel out into silence
Instead of creating a new, third sound
That I also have to listen to

V.
Now that it's spring
I'm on my last cochlear nerve
As the mowers descend once more
TAP TAP
I can't even finish this poem
Between barking dogs and car horns and
Your birds wouldn't sit still either
In the middle of a hailstorm
I can't even tell you the sound it makes
As they all take off at once
A scattered flurry of wings and beaks and claws and hail
TAP TAP TAP
The hammer in my ear and the--
TAP TAP
TAP TAP TAPTAPTAPTAP TAP
TAP TAP TAP
TAP

VI.
I read once that there is a room
That is as quiet as we can make it
There was no photo with the article
But when I think of that room
It is small
And square
And empty
And a blinding, impossible white

Half of an accordion
A clenched fist's worth of raw iron

One long yellow banner unfurling from a parapet
A theremin played by a swarm of cicadas

Two supernovas trying to out-collapse each other
An elevator in descent

Three gloved hands clasped tight around a pigeon
A white cereal bowl full of round river stones

Four feet of tight-knotted rope
Hung in the middle of an abandoned barn
Occasionally struck by dust-swirled sunlight from
A hole in the middle of the rotting roof

A hole in the middle of wet red clay

A hole in the middle of a burial shroud

Woven from piano wire

Bitter

Persistent

Mine

Make-up gives me a headache

Along with an existential crisis

If life is a performance

Every decision reveals something about me

What does it mean to change my face

To be more like something that you want to see

I've practiced every day of my life

To adapt to this rotating stage

It's still hard to know when to come in

I run through my lines before each entrance

So when the words come out

They roll off my tongue

Like a trained bear on a ball

I'll play the role of the servant

Anything to have a script

If bigger eyes and brighter lips

Make my expressions easier to read

I'll do it for my audience

As long as they're laughing

I'm safe

I may look good in motley

I may have painted on this mouth

A mask remains a mask

But doctor, I am Pagliacci

That should be the name in my chart

If you could just give me my diagnosis

Before pronouncing me such a good clown

1.

If you want a chance at progress

Press your treadles down in the same order every time

1

    2

         3

             4

You know by now what happens when you do

You'll have a scarf six months later

In the twill you like

So move your hands in the ancient pattern

And give humble thanks

To the household gods of herringbone

2.

If you want a chance at progress

Pull your needle through in the same order every stitch

1    3

4   2

You know by now what happens when you do

You'll finish five years later

And be empty when it's done

So count squares in the sacred geometry

Step into the liminal space

And devote your hours

To the grand spirit of tapestry

3.

If you want a chance at progress

Take your medication in the same order every night

1   2   3   4

You know by now what happens when you don't

You'll be a mess two days later

And it's your own damn fault

So align each bottle on your bedside table

Cleanse your throat with cold water

And take your own offering

To the patron saint of dopamine

4.

If you want a chance at progress

Repeat each stanza in the same order every line

    1

    2

    3

    4

You know by now what happens when you do

You'll have a poem ten minutes later

And it's your own dam fault again

So arrange your words to the compass rose

Set each one alight

And pray once more

To yourself

For a very long time

I thought of my body as an unfortunate way

To move my brain from room to room

I used to go years without crying

And was convinced that was a good thing

When people talked about intuition

It sounded like a scam

What could this dumpy thing tell me

That I didn't already know

Every feeling in my body was bad

I thought I could think my way out of it

Well, guess where your brain in, dipshit

If the call is coming from inside the house

Then at the very least I can decorate

If I need to clean my room

Then I'll listen to Beethoven's Ninth

I was not very good

But when I played the violin

I learned which vibrations meant what

Playing flat sounds bad because it feels bad

My fingers shift up until the right tone reverberates

Through my arm, my skull, my chest

The best part of the Firebird Suite is the finale

You could skip ahead and save 15 minutes

But you can't skip to the end of an emotion

Without missing the whole damn point

Listening is a full-body experience

Now the right story beats

Hit me like a tuning fork

And I cry at the finale of every good show

That's how I know it was good

I pull the wire through clay

Like a garrote the the neck of some French noble

In a tale of revanche worthy of Dumas

I smash it onto the table to force out the air

Until I slam it full strength in the center of The Wheel

And with hands dripping wet

I push in a controlled strangulation

Pinch and twist and carve and scar

Suck out its last breath of moisture

Drown the whole thing in a bucket of poison

And seal it inside a furnace hotter than hell

At last my dark deed is complete

It's a bowl I keep my dice in

Hydrogen bursts every chance it gets

Carbon bonds forge in battle

DNA rips itself in two

I never thought I had a violent impulse

But I sure do like to make things

Each story I devour

Each image I consume

Gets trapped in this life-to-art pipeline

After all

We are what we eat

Everything that is was once something else

And nothing's more destructive than alchemy

The question is whether the gold's worth the lead

Because there's always a little blood that gets lost

On its way from the heart to the hands

I took Latin in high school

Because of course I did

It's an armchair language

All of the things I like about words

Without having to ruin them

By talking to someone

Ecce Romani!

Togas to class on the Ides of March

Nutella on bread when we finished a quiz

Most of the grammar is gone for good

Hic haec hoc

But there are some pillars still standing

It can be fun to catch a glimpse of a ruin

In the middle of a sentence

Like catch and ruin and sentence, in fact

And fact, of course

And course, as well

It's less fun now that this empire is crumbling

What good is my rhetoric in a failed state

Where its only use is to sharpen the stick

A funeral procession for a beached whale

Bloated and bulging on its own decay

I beat my breast, I tear my clothes

While the Senate and People of Rome

Tell me there is nothing to mourn

As they tape laurel leaves above its small dull eye

As they shove this corpse down a parade route

As one by one they collapse in the street

If someday someone finds this text

Buried and safe by a newly dead sea

Will they line up my lines like the shards of a vessel

Will their word for ruin still be the same

And will they know too what it's like to be crumbling

Start with an offering of drinks

From wine to water

Tap or bottled, room temp or iced, short glass or tall

Count the beads in your head before offering again

Too early is a venial sin

Too late is beyond redemption

When every glass nears its final third

And is full once more through an act of grace

The First Miracle

There is no thirst in my Mother's house

Proceed to the altar of your dining room table

Covered in cloth to match the season

In the name of a veggie and a fruit and a crunchy salt

Please be seated

Take of this charcuterie--

A piece be with you

And also with you

No matter how many guests arrive

There is more soup than bowls can contain

The Second Miracle

There is no hunger in my Mother's house

For she so loved her friends

That she stayed in the kitchen

The hymn of their laughter a Joyful Mystery

Take this bread and eat of it

I bought the good stuff from Whole Foods

This is my body

All I can give you

Forgive me, Mother

Let it be enough

I read Ruskin a few years before I met you

One of my favorite facts is that

They call it taste because it's an immediate reaction

A split-second of self-discovery

And a textbook to understand why

I have exquisite taste

It is something that I have acquired

Through a deliberate dissection of my favorite things

If I swirl this glass at the right angle

The light refracts into a 12-page essay

The truth is

If I had to wait for at first sight

For our eyes to have met across a crowded room

I would never have loved you

If there's anything worse than eye contact

It's a crowd

Even one with you in it

What could possibly be less romantic than fate

To love someone as a compulsion

A hammer tap to the knee

If I had to love you, I wouldn't

To be star-crossed is to be cursed

"Tell me what you like and I will tell you what you are"

I read the same books over and over

I play every game the exact same way

I know what I like

And if given the choice

I will choose the same thing every time

So it's a good thing for both of us

That love is a choice

The best thesis defense is a thesis offense

I will keep you safe the only way I know how

With the same purple pen that got me through grad school

I could write so much more

A single-spaced lifetime

And if you give me the choice

I would diverge a hundred paths

In every yellow wood in New England

To be one traveler with you

I'm usually pretty good with words

But I could have sworn there was an h in there

Like character, right

Something to do with people

Or kinds of people

I'm trying to find it

In my etymology field guide

But I can't match the markings

Characture

Charichter

Chareactor

Until--

No h after all:

How embarrassing!

From Vulgar Latin

Overloading a cart

Becomes exaggeration

Becomes satire

Becomes grotesque

It's still me in here

The organist in my frontal lobe

Pressing down pedals

Pushing out air

Performing their function

But I am so deliberate

That I unbalance myself

When I am overloaded

I become an exaggeration

A satire of myself

My signal lamp smile flashes and twists

My laugh barks from a dog's mouth

I press down with my right leg and

My pulley system of nerves

Arranges my face into a pleasing countenance

From Less Vulgar Latin

To contain oneself

This conversation

Is too heavy a cart

But I'll drag it out of enemy fire

And apologize for the inconvenience

I'm usually pretty good with words

What kind of person

Tries so hard

And still fucks it up

How

Embarrassing

I guess the term had stuck by the mid-90s

Because I couldn't go a week in middle school

Without a well-meaning adult proselytizing about role models

An interrogation about who I looked up to

Who was it that inspired me

To Work Hard and be a Good Person

To Follow My Dreams  and Succeed

I think they were disappointed when I answered them honestly

I have never had a role model

I suppose that sounds sad on the surface

Or maybe they hoped I would say it was them

It's an insult to my imagination

That I would require such explicit instructions

I have never looked up to anyone

I don't look at people that way

What a pressure to put someone under

Sentenced to live as an inspiration

Trapped on top of a pedestal

Where the only way to get down is to fall

I have never looked up to anyone

So I looked inside and found you

Is this what they meant

When they said it would Build Character

I wanted you to be a good person

So I made you care about people without trying

I didn't know how to do that yet

I didn't think that I could

It took so much effort to feign understanding

That I knew I could never be Good

I settled on your name by age 14

But I still don't know what to call you

It's not that you are a secret

It's just hard for me to explain

How we made each other better people

I've drawn your face in so many notebooks

It is slightly different each time

You are whatever I need in the moment

Part escape, part practice, part comfort

A warrior and the training ground

An actress and the script

I gave you the voice that I always wanted

The speeches I could never say

You bear my pain by giving it purpose

A narrative arc bending towards kindness

And in return I made you a dancer

I crafted my own moral compass

I forged my own sword by my side

I still have a hard time drawing hands

But for you, I will keep trying

Some days the only words I spoke

Were to a clerk at Sainsburys

During my daily pilgrimage towards the High Street

A few heavy coins in trade

For a baguette and some brie

If I pretend that I'm hungry

Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow

With the Radcliffe Camera peering through my window

It gets dark so early here

I take precisely one photo in 28 days

A self-portrait, already unusual

I hate people in my photos

It goes double for me

My stark face is over exposed

Navy blue shadows at 3 in the morning

And I was the only one there to see it

     ___

I wanted to walk along Hadrian's Wall

With no one to stop me, I did

A family offers me a seat in front

A testudo marches across a field of vert

Period-accurate archers set a longboat on fire

Whole train cars unite to give me directions

Traveling alone really isn't

My camera doesn't have time to turn off

The next day I walk down from the settlement

With no one to stop me, I could

I rest on a rock and eat the lunch I packed

Dried apricots and candied cashews

And bottled water still cold enough

Distant lambs chase the breeze back and forth

The slow creek a think sky on this hillside

And I was the only one there to see it

Lining up calf deep as the waves roll in

At the edge of a dark manmade lake

All of us on the shore

Til the lake is no more

If man made, then man can unmake

For what did it start, and for when will it end

There is one thing we all know for sure

Each of us only manned

With a spoon in our hand

The one tool that we all could procure

We tend to our task and go fast as we can

Side by side by this vast frigid lake

Through bending and stooping

And throwing and scooping

We each give all that we have to take

Birds call in the trees

Night falls with the breeze

Rest while your rest can be found

Lining up half asleep as the steam rolls past

At the lip of a large iron pot

Filled with broth to the brim

Scent carried by the wind

For the lake folk to eat something hot

I suppose it makes sense to restore what was lost

With the spoon that each used through the day

Three spoonfuls to all

Fair as fair could be called

And they nod that it should be this way

All I ask for is sleep before each brand new day

But the air fills with dance and with song

As they laugh and complain

Expect of me the same

I know deep in my bones I am wrong

From spring through to fall

Til there's no sun at all

The world turns once more around

I labor as hard, I'm served just as much

But each day I fall further behind

I've only just spotted

That my spoon is slotted

To think I thought it was all in my mind

Hope is many things, including

Convenient

I think that's what makes it a Virtue

The kind of thing you can make a statue about

If you like carving placid women

And the folds in drapery

Stick her on a plinth between Chastity and Patience

Soft smiles and unfurrowed brows

A chorus line of allegory in front of a courthouse

I'm back in college, in gym shoes and a fencing jacket

I parry like a champ

And I lose every single match

Slowly pushed back out of bounds

I don't want to hurt anyone

I don't want to hurt

Anger in my body is the inside of the sun

Constant roiling combustion

A chain reaction of the unfair

Of course stars collapse when they're finished

It hurts

I go sit on the stairs

Until my chest is a black hole

When I speak, it's with a fencing foil

Precision in language is a Virtue

But curse this paladin heart

My hand aches for a war hammer

To crack this rotten world open like a cantaloupe

Scoop it hollow until my fingernails scrape the rind

If there's a seed worth saving

I'll find it

Anger steps down from her plinth

Strides towards the courthouse door

With burning eyes and hammer in hand

Some problems are, in fact, nails

I am angry

And I am radiant

As the sun

They say that I was always so bright

How long have I been burning up

Trying to speak through a mouthful of ash

Candlewick nerves lit from both ends

All that's left of me is the afterimage

How long have I been burning down

If every breath is fuel for this house fire

Warm your hands before it goes out

Every paper I touch goes up in flames

Every friend another branch for the pyre

I left my business unfinished for both of us

So now who is haunting who

How many rooms have I drifted through

How many people are left

With nothing from me

But a fading trail of smoke

If when you die your life unspools before you

I think I might be dying

Or maybe unraveling

I can't stop pulling at every experience I have ever had

Sitting cross legged and yanking with my whole arm

And I can feel the strands looping around me

Piles of them beginning to tangle

The secret to working with thread is to keep it safe under

          tension

The tighter the better

Wound around and around and around

Let up for a second and it's game over, baby

I hope you like knots

Two whole summers spent cross legged winding yarn

I don't remember where all of it came from

But every inch of it went through my fingers twice

From dozens of skeins to one big ball

As big as my chest, filling my lap

And so much heavier than you'd think

From something that was just yarn all the way down

I think I was 8 or maybe 10

I brought it to school for show-and-tell

Maybe hoping that someone could tell me why I had done it

Was that the year I spent reading Maniac Magee?

The only book I would read that year

As soon as I finished, I would start it again

Around and around and around

Maniac Magee could untie any knot

What do you do with a giant ball of yarn except unravel it again

Back to those dozens of skeins

I put them away in my closet

Exactly as they were before

But every inch of it went through my fingers twice

I don't feel safe if I'm not under tension

Pressing myself into the closest surface

Sitting on my hands, bracing my leg

The harder the better

Let up for a second and it's game over, baby

Now my back is nothing but knots

I'm 18 and I haven't slept in four days

Tonight is the senior banquet for my high school speech team

Speaking in public scared me so much

That the solution was to train myself to do it

I'm knitting gifts for my coaches and teammates

I don't know if they're my friends

But I know that when something ends

Making a gift is the right thing to do

When I hand them out, I know it was the wrong thing to do

For the rest of the week, it feels like

I still have yarn wrapped around my hands

Around and around and around

The secret to working with thread is to keep it under the right

          amount of tension

Keep it too loose and it loops around you

Pull it too tight and it breaks

Skein to ball to skein again

Maniac Magee can untie any knot

It's all one strand anyway

You just need to follow the thread

It is 2:23 in the morning

When I wake up, and you're there

Watching quietly as I pour myself too much orange juice

And when I got to lie back down

You are already in my place on the bed

We shift until you are across the right side of my chest

Vibrating at the frequency of contentment

I can feel it through my ribcage

Through both of my hands

And I am living in a poem

In our old apartment

We sat on the couch as I told my mother

Hard words to say and hard words to hear

And when no words were enough

You lay between us

And lent us the soft weight of yourself

One day you will be gone

And I will be gone

And this will be gone

This time and this space that out of every moment

In every universe

We get to share

And no words

Are enough

All I can hope is that

As you are stretched across my heart

You can feel me vibrating at the frequency

Of gratitude

If you throw me a compliment

My whole spinal cord wags

Lights up GOOD like a neon sign

I'll catch it and bring it right back to you

Sure, I'll roll over

Throw it again again again

I come with my own leash

And a shock collar wrapped around the inside of my throat

Flips the switch to BAD like a bolt of lightning

That'll teach me

To know my place

Sit

Stay

Whenever he hears a bell

Pavlov thinks about his dog

About how simple it was to train

To condition and control

You just need a bit of patience

Again again again

It doesn't even have to be a compliment

Just sound like one

A rock inside a snowball

If your arm moves the right way

I'll take off running until

I realize what was never there

What a fun game

What a dumb dog

Throw it again again again

This poem woke me up

Long before my alarm

What else can I do

When my eyes won't close

Besides write about it

Anyway

I was already awake

It wasn't always like this

Except the parts that were

Sleep is a distant mountain

A treacherous climb

And all that waits for me at the summit

Is an exhausted slump

Flag in hand

I blink and I'm back in the foothills

With one day's fewer rations

The poems are new, though

Or new again

It's been over a decade

But here they come

A 4 AM avalanche

The snow just builds up, I guess

Until it folds under its own weight

An exhausted slump

Taking everything with it in its collapse

In its impatience

Come on, man

I just built that tower

Stone by stone by fist-sized stone

Forty-five minutes at a time

Foundations lined with citalopram

Corridors insecurely attached

A constellation of offices that I have cried inside

What else can I do

In this snow blind depression

Besides grab the two nearest chunks of rubble

And make them kiss

I just built that tower

And the one before that

And the one before that

And the one before that

It's just--

I thought

I was already awake

Why am I afraid to say

That I like these poems

The pieces of me that glint as they catch the light

Reflecting off the quiet water

Of this deep dark truthful mirror

The moon orbits the earth orbits the sun

Who are you to tell me that I am not all three

Maybe it's a good thing

To look down at your own reflection and know

It's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen

The moon can show up with whatever face it wants

Fully present or not at all

No one tells it to smile when it's waning

Even if they did

It's too far to hear and too big to care

Its beauty is in its indifference

It's there if you're looking or not

I am the mask and the wearer

The gem and each of its facets

Of course it's a phase

Show me what isn't

I can wait, but I probably won't

These waves sound like a You Problem

And as I stride past the heavens

You'll see the face that I want you to see

You're welcome

When in my life did I learn

That caring about things was stupid

The fastest way to get hurt

That things that made me happy were unworthy

That they were guilty and so was I

How much of my life was spent ashamed

Of my little self who cared so much

Who liked cats and musicals and the musical CATS

Who read every book she could find on Greek mythology

Earnest and embarrassed in dynamic equilibrium

She just wanted to know who she was

Or find something that would tell her

Now I am the one who can tell her

That she cares about people and gets paid for it

That she weaves like Penelope and shares her sketchbook

That she is cooler than she ever imagined

That I love her more than she ever thought

I will make her a crown out of colored pencils

I will fill her arms with sunflowers

We will be mermaids together

And rollerblade to the songs of cicadas

Until it's dark and time to go home

Limitations define what it means to be free

The safest I feel in a frail little shell

Still I remain my own worst enemy

Infinite choice allows me to be me

Or that's what they say who have something to sell

Limitations define what it means to be free

I cut myself off with a strike to the knee

An axe to a tree with intention to fell

Still I remain my own worst enemy

When I need to I'll write structured poetry

Weaving my words in an elaborate spell

Limitations define what it means to be free

Then the pen point turns inward self-critically

Strikes each line through at the sound of the bell

Still I remain my own worst enemy

A beautiful line where the sky meets the sea

The small space between is the story to tell

Limitations define what it means to be free

Still I remain my own worst enemy

I may never fly on a plane again

That thought was scary once

Every place I traveled

Every step towards the sea

"What if I am never here again"

Thousands of photographs

Taken with the hot breath of forever

Against the back of my neck

No wonder Dublin came out crooked

1,000 Places to See Before You Die

Only a human mind could turn an impossible cosmos

Into a checklist

Like the afterlife is a filing cabinet

I hope this world is big enough for my own expectations

I hope this sunset gets graded on a curve

Now even this bed is a little too large

When it's the two of us at the end of the day

You type and I draw

Our hands meet in the middle

My camera lies safe in a cardboard box

I may never see another ocean

But our pillowcases are the deepest blue

And this blanket covers me like the tide