Water towers too

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It feels like a stereotype —
the windmills, the old ford truck,
the cows in pasture —
and yet that’s my view.

There’s also the 70 mph
two-lane road and
the broken down barns.
The sky would normally be
empty for miles and miles,
but it’s grey and overcast.

The sun is setting,
orange light silhouetting
clouds, and it’s reminding
me of home.

I miss the cradle of the mountains,
the easy flow of the river,
the forests of pine and hemlock.

We passed an old tree
struck down by lightning.
I wonder what that would feel like,
to feel the surge of light,
of electricity.

I can imagine speaking in sparks,
shocking those around me.
I’d never let it stop,
forever giving my body to the light,
shining with each crackle,
each sizzle, of power.

My home would no longer
be that valley,
but a field of grasses
and coneflowers.

Not a bad trade-off,
I suppose, to create a
new home in this place
and share this light with you.

Dancing

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I danced with you last tonight.
So rarely do I get to see your smile,
unrestrained joy written across your face
as you mimed the words to each song.

I turned the music louder
as I grew more and more tired,
only spurred by the immense bliss
I felt, twirling around
and glimpsing you in the mirror.

I used to dance among friends in the dark,
accompanied by their laughter, their movements,
and the occasional shadow.

It felt much the same,
only I had me as company
with my calico print
and thread-wrapped headphones.

It was nice to see the candor gaiety
when so often I only see the streaked
face, the hard lines, the absent mind.

Will you dance with me, again?

A day, in thirds

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I.
I watched a father clean the outside of his child’s dormitory window.
It was a simple gesture, something to do as the child puttered around,
learning the corners of their new living space.

II.
A cashier asked if I was at least 18 years old.
I laughed, finding the inquiry and expectant truth funny,
and even though I had no reason to lie, I kind of wanted to.

III.
I stumbled when an old, problematic thought came to me.
It captured me, for a moment, trying to sink its teeth of
cyclical patterns and history into my fleshy side.

Ghosts, if

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Do you ever get chills
after stepping into a hot shower?
Goosebumps trailing from one arm
to the other, hair raised
as if spooked.

I think of the childhood tale,
the one about ghosts and goosebumps.
Perhaps a ghost stands with me
in the shower, relishing
in the inability but imagination
of feeling water wash over bare skin.

Do you believe in ghosts? Spirits?
I’m not sure if I do,
but I like the idea of ghostly companionship —
someone hanging out with me
as I putter along in this world.

Media depicts hauntings as terrifying happenstances.
Doors slamming, flames erupting from nowhere,
floors creaking, creaking, creaking.

Do you think there is more subtly
to the art of being a ghost?
I feel like we’d hear more about
hauntings if all ghosts raged among
the living.

I think there are nuances to ghosts,
if they exist.
Most want to peacefully roam,
maybe cause a little chaos —

I mean, who wouldn’t want to
be chaotic-good, at least for a little while?
I wonder who they are,
the ghost that follows me.
I have a feeling it’s a stranger.

If you got to choose,
who would you haunt as a ghost?
I feel like ghosts don’t
follow the traditional timeline,
so you could go back to any place,
any time.

I wouldn’t haunt only one person,
I would travel, see the stories
of people I’ve admired, cared for,
loved.

I’d probably visit you, at some point
in your life, so if you ever
get goosebumps in a hot shower,
know it’s just me,
trying to feel the warm water
flow over my ghostly body.

Being alone

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I wonder how others
spend their time alone.

Do they read,
enchanted by stories
of unknown lands and
beautiful people?

Do they watch films,
enticed by moving shapes
and colors?

Can one say they are alone,
then, when immersed so
thoroughly in another world?

I, well, I’ve tried these
acts of aloneness
to only find companionship.

Thousands of lives I’ve visited.
I’ve drunk with dwarves,
waltzed with princes,
escaped with bandits, and
mourned with lovers.

So, what is it that people
do when fully alone —
alone with no necessary tasks
to complete, no songs
to sing harmony with,
no smiles to return?

I guess it’s only fair
for me to share, for
I felt silly in my games
when this question arose.

I spin around in rolling chairs, kneeling
to see better out the window,
pretending I am a pirate at sea.

I walk in nature,
laughing when I stumble on tree roots,
pausing to turn my body towards the sun.

I write
words and words and words
to make sense of the
conversations in my head —
like I have here.

What do you do when alone?
Is it uncomfortable?

Do you find compassion
in the arms of fictional
characters created to
fill the space around
your soft body?

Do you ache, like I,
sometimes?

Tricks

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I looked into the mirror
to see someone else staring back.
The encounter was too quick
for me to get a name,
but she seemed familiar.

I noticed her stubborn chin,
her easy dimples as she
smiled in passing,
her dark outline.

I tried to follow, meeting only
glass and plaster as my
hand went to tap her shoulder.

She seemed lost, trapped even,
as if her world was not big enough,
as if her world knew nothing
of what she carried.

I wanted to help her,
but I can’t seem to travel across
the divide separating us.

If I see her again,
I’ll be sure to cry out.
But for now, I look into the mirror
and see nothing in return.

Not an autobiography pt. 3

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I am flared jeans
and oversized band shirts.

I found out much about myself,
good and bad and neutral
through listening —
listening to those imposed as teachers
and guardians, but more importantly,
the ones just as hurt as I,
musicians I didn’t know I understood
beyond the sensations they pulled
from my body with each plucked note
and word sung.

Music, perpetually filling the air
with some hymn of life and loss,
saved me as I went from sleep
to wake to sleep, cradled
in the echoing noise.

I am broken records
and burnt corners.

I started writing poetry
to make sense
of the world around me.

What I didn’t understand,
I wrote down, hoping the
pages and pages of inscriptions
would aid in my learning.
Little did I know,
writing was my music —
my saving grace.

I am no weaver
but I feel her curse.

I wish to return to the black river,
to slip from that fallen log
and be baptized by the rushing current,
forgiven.

I would take my great love there,
someday,
to the playground of my younger years,
wanting to share the trails
that my feet ache to remember —
wanting to explain the caves
and bats and other things
that come up as they lean into
the multitudes I contain.

I am bunches of rosemary
and a field of columbine.

I don’t forget easily,
holding on too tight with
a rebel’s fist and a golden heart.
It might be my greatest
character flaw or endearing quality.

This is why seventy percent of my memory
exists as song lyrics melded with reality.
A single song can place me in dozens
of flashbacks, some more welcomed
than others.

I am fossils
and forgotten sunglasses.

Too few letters combine
to tell you the story of everything.
I am held together with glue
and clamps, metal wire and pins.

I wish I could write every memory
onto the sides of a paper lantern,
to set fire to the past
but light the way forward.



The moon, again

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I gather moments as if
droplets of blood,
each collecting and pausing
in my heart until
my chest feels so full
it might burst.

I smile when this happens,
knowing the immense joy
I feel will soon dissipate,
but already I’ve relived
a moment of bliss.

These memories,
pooling under the surface,
are as easily sketched
across a blank page
as they are written
across my face.

I can’t help but remember
those times where giddy
ruled over any other emotion —
where pain seemed impossible
and care was our only inevitability.

My friend, once upon a time,
taped “pain is inevitable;
empathy is required”
on her computer.

I think about it, day
after day.

Life is pain,
and yes, many other things,
but I come back
to the pain most often.

Anyways,
how could one love
without knowing its opposite?

The moments currently
swelling up
relate to you, of course,
and are as clear as the moon
on a cloudless night.

Yet, there’s something
more beautiful about the moon
when half-hidden amongst clouds
that makes me miss
the mystery
of it all.

A walk

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I took a walk today
to clear my mind
and take in the world.

I pondered about
my life as I listened
to a playlist of songs
meant to carry me
in the quiet moments.

I stumbled, thinking
about you as a song
from a past love
(yet not love)
came on.

It made me laugh
and question
my line of thought
about you —
and that’s when I saw her.

She and her fawn,
enjoying the shade
of deciduous trees,
stared at me,
a clunky hiker.

I paused and smiled,
happy to share a moment.
As I slowly moved
to take a picture, I spooked
her and her babe.

The motion,
the desire to make a
moment in time last longer,
cut short the time I had.

I felt near shameful
for changing the energy
of the situation.

As I moved forward,
listening to a different song
and finding myself lost in a meadow,
I forgot what it was
that made me think of you.

I did think, however,
how peaceful it would be
to take shelter in that meadow
amongst the sumacs and blackberries
with the sun beating down
and a feather in my hat.