One year

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I wrote a poem on this day
last year — grateful
for someone and something
that sparked a light for me.

I chased that light,
feet and heart pounding
as I stumbled along.

When I finally found her,
she snuggled into my chest,
cradled by curved bone
and soft organs.

On this day last year,
I did not know of
all that could (and would)
happen.

I graduated college holding a pink rose;
a black sling was my greatest accessory;
my heart saw potential in vulnerability; and
I moved to a new home with friendly shadows.

I’m eager to see what happens next,
knowing that the impossible
has already occurred.

beautiful

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I’m having trouble with words lately.
It feels like everything I write
sounds off — wrong.
I keep thinking it’s great, but then
it’s published and criticized
for things out of my control.

It’s a hard feeling to contest with,
especially when my livelihood revolves
around the words I type on a page.

I know, sometimes it’s my fault.
I type the wrong name or title,
or I confuse subject-verb agreements.

I truly enjoy the work,
but sometimes it feels … empty,
as if my words don’t land on the tarmac
and instead decapitate the tops of trees
to crash in a forest of angry
interpretations and unknown objects.

I read a book recently
were a young female character described poets,
true poets, as people who leave something
beautiful behind.

It’s not poetry, what I write,
but maybe one day I’ll find the beauty
in my stories. One day,
I’ll write with as much passion as
my heart feels, thumping
out of rhythm as my day
rolls away.

I’d like to think I leave something
beautiful here,
but I’m a poor judge
when it comes to these things.

I feel like a child,
a child shroud in a green parka,
a child facing a world too tall
to reach.

My kid hands grasp
at every balloon ribbon floating past
and stray star shining in the sky,
praying to no one
to keep me sane.

stars

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23 stars adorn my body,
23 stars plus one for good luck.

I’m in a new place and feeling alone,
overwhelmed and yet more at peace
than I have in a while.

I’m not trying to block the quiet
with rhythms outside my heart.
I’m not tip-toeing as if scared
of the monster under the bed.

I’m counting on that good luck star
to see me through to next October.
I’m not calling it a promise,
just a hope.
A wish.

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I am a speck,
an infinitesimal speck in the whole
of everything.

I am merely particles —
light particles taken shape
to mimic the movements
of human. girl.

Sometimes, I think
a sunbeam will absorb me,
me who is drawn like a cat
to blots of light.

It’s easier to believe
my flesh and bones are merely
assumed, not definitive.

I want to know
what it feels like to fly
without purpose or direction.

I want to know
what it feels like to float
without time ticking by.

If I was light,
I could be early morning wonder;
I could be warmth against your
flushed cheeks.

The dew would sparkle,
calling out my name
as if I were the most beautiful,
beautiful thing.

Timing

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I watched a little girl
speak to the leaves today.
Her mom yelled and yelled,
but she stayed put,
taking in the opinions
of fading yellows and brown.

Squirrels chased each other
in the tree near
where the girl spoke.

A dog stalked something
far away, another squirrel perhaps.
His ears floppy but pulled back,
tail standing straight up.

He wandered as his owner did,
individuals deciding
to come together again
when enough grass was smelled
and middle distance examined.

It was a busy day in the park,
but I sat quietly,
watching the world turn by
as if I were its axis.

Us, I miss

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I keep having lapses of memory
when I go to turn off my alarm
and realize it’s no longer across the room.

Sometimes, I can’t help but sit on my desk,
thinking about our last home
and the echoing laughter
and heated floors
and cat hair.

I miss our constant humming
and our visitors
and the silence.

I don’t want to call it
a fever dream,
not yet anyways,
but sometimes it feels unreal.

I miss us
cooking dinner together.
I miss us
when going to sleep at night.
I miss us
making tea in the morning.

Everything begins and ends,
but we are nowhere near
those extremes,
just existing in this fugue state
and waiting for the moments
we get together again.

October, again

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What is it like,
to believe?

Is it sweet, like
juice from a fresh apricot
running down your chin?

Is it chilling, like
a drive late at night
with all the windows down?

Can you tell me,
please?

I’ve been thinking
about my life, as I tend to do
when October rolls around.

The holes that once perforated
my body are not as numerous
as they once were.

It doesn’t sting as bad, either.

Yet, never did I imagine this day,
nor the ones of last year,
or two years before that,
or two years before that.

I’m not sure what to do
with these thoughts —
existing like ghosts of past selves.

They litter my dreams
and the quiet shelves
of my heart.

How much do you believe?

Is it measurable by the
length of my arms
surrounding you?

Is it quantified by the
number of leaves
covering your backyard?

Can you count them
and let me know?

My heart beats slowly,
as if contesting each breath
entering my lungs.

Yet, I carry on,
hoping to learn more
about what’s kept me here.

Maybe it’s some form of a
beautiful reciprocal arrangement —
if you catch my reference.

guitar static

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I had a dream —
or maybe it was a memory —
that you commented
on one of my poems.

I can’t seem to find it now
or recall which poem it was,
but it made me think
of my horoscope from yesterday,
the one that read,

“your type of paranoia means
that you think someone hates you
if they don’t respond right away.”

Now, I don’t expect you to respond,
but clear thoughts like that
don’t exist in anxiety-riddled bodies.

I’ve learned a few things that
I’ve wanted to share with you —
for no reasons other than
I learned them or
felt insanely ashamed of
not knowing them before —

like realizing Jack White wrote
Steady, as she goes
with Brendan Benson.

Anyways,
I think it was a dream,
a dream where the world spun
and I thought of The Weepies.

I accomplished something great today.
I shared it, of course, hoping you’d care.

I think you did.

But now I’m here,
thinking about the rattling words
in my brain and drinking
a warm beverage
from a shipwrecked mug.