This Night Becomes You

You were this night.
It becomes you, in both senses
of the word. You’ve both
got that same dark quality
in your eyes, dotted with sparks
of stars, placed so randomly
it could only be fate. I laid out
maps of stars and could not find
anything more spectacular
than those stars in your eyes.

Your fingers shared the same
stillness of the trees this night,
quiet and unshaking.

I found your lips were moist,
like the dewed grass of my front
lawn, evenly dispersed and cool.

I felt your breath on my skin,
and it was warm, like the breeze
which the night inherited, subtle
and did not disturb except
in pleasant ways.

Yes, dear, this night becomes you.

Shell

Sometimes, I think it would be better
to be suicidal than what I was. That
zombie didn’t live. Didn’t feel,
went through the motions.
Nothing more, nothing less.
Call me crazy, if you will,
but living like that is no more
show of a will to live
than taking a knife to your wrist.

On Writing

It hurts, you know, peeling
these words out of my skin,
coaxing each vowel into the world,
onto the page, into your hearts,
your minds, even just
your ears. And you’ve no idea,
how excruciating these nights
have become, these past years
when I became increasingly
prolific and everything from before
faded away, all peripheral.
I’d let you inside, give you a tour,
but I can’t pay for the hospital visit
and you might never talk to me again.

Wasting Night

I used to love the night before
it became too lonely and I started
each period of darkness staring
out the window, waiting for everyone
to wake up and join me again,
to live, to not waste what I’ve got.
We’ve only so much time, you know.
I’d rather not sleep.

In The Tavern

Spin me ‘til I’m sick, my daring
darling, I want to touch the sky,
I want my hair to be kin with the clouds.

Spin me ‘til my shoes wear thin,
we can buy more in the morning,
and now there is only tonight.

Spin me ‘til I am mad,
giggling drunk and screaming joy
from every side of the room at once.

Spin me ‘til I don’t remember
why we came here in the first place.

An Irish Reel

It all moved entirely too fast,
but I clung to it, like a cat
to a curtain. You moved fluidly,
born into this music, this culture
that stunted me so. But I hung
on it all, and was made
all the more alive for it.

A Student-Teacher Relationship

So you stuck your stars in the sky,
and I watched you push the pin
into each one. Quietly I wondered
if I pulled a pin, would it explode?

I didn’t try it. I watched you,
watched you explode instead,
become something great, something
I could never be.

They told me I could teach,
since I couldn’t do. That is what I did.
I’ve taught you. The stars are your
creation, and you are mine.

And I go unrecognized.

Hold A Pistol

Hold a pistol to my eyes,
I don’t care to see that look
on your face any longer.
Tear up my corneas,
leave the irises as brown
puddles and I will thank
you for that. Just please,
don’t hold that expression
on your face.

Wormholes

In some parallel universe,
we are holding hands. Maybe
you’re stroking my cheek
or I’m laughing. I don’t know.

I know in this universe,
the only one that matters
to this me, nothing has changed,
no matter how I wish things have.

Because You Smell Like Rain

Through the windows, I could smell
the rain, and it made my heart race
a little, almost as if you were next
to me again. I found this was not
the case after looking around for your
sea glass eyes. Still, piqued,
I inhaled as much as I could,
trying to save you away for a sunny day.

I Prefer To Be Plath

Once, you told me, you searched
me on the internet following one
of my little stints in the media.
(I’ve been in the news since,
though on a distant planet.)

If you’re interested, I would like
to interview you, as I have been in the past.
First question: What’s your name?
Second question: What’s your purpose?
Third question: Do you remember me?
Fourth question: Have you searched me recently?

If you have, I can say nothing,
only this: Does it embarrass you
to be the subject of so many poems?
Or do you relish in it, like some
poet’s lover?

Upon your answer, I might remind
you that Plath may have died,
killed herself because of Hughes,
but Hughes was haunted by his lady poet
until the last.

I prefer to be Plath.

Red and Green

Never wear green and red
together. That’s what my aunt
told me when I was five,
and she was training me
to be a fashionista.

Then in high school, I had
an art class that I went to every
day and we learned about colors –
how elementary – and shading.

I was reminded, while I shaded
in my color wheel, the red
and green directly opposite
each other, never to wear
the two together.

And recently, I remembered that
red and green do not only clash,
but are also complementary colors.
You can see it, there, the word is there:
complete.

Yes, and when blended, they become
what my art teacher called neutral.

I suppose this is why they say opposites
attract. Cliché, I know. But what is the point
of being with someone who is not
your opposite, who cannot complete you?
If we are to make a world of neutrality,
this would be the way to do it.

I’d like to start with you and me,
red and green.

Replies

It has been over a month
since I have heard from you.
This is the second time
this has happened. You say
one thing, but I’ve found
(twice now) that you don’t follow
up on anything. So what
am I to do? Do I wait?
Do I prod?

Or do I just forget,
like you’ve forgotten about me?

Not

When we saw each other,
we did not look at each other.
For the duration, we said
non-words to each other
and our body language
was nonexistent. We ate
non-food and you said
non-swears and I spent
the day pretending I
was not there.

Languages

I’ve tried talking with you but
whatever it is I really need
to say can’t be expressed
with words.
At least, none that I know
(And I know three languages –
not that I’m trying to impress.)
Anyway, Liebe, if you figure
it all out, let me know. I may
be fluent in English, and a German
star, and familiar with Latin,
but I am lost in love.

Questions

Did you get the information
you were looking for? Did
you see I was just as pathetic
as you imagined?

If you asked me the same,
I’d say I only came away
with more unaskable questions.

A Non-Meeting

This time, you couldn’t even find
it in you to look at
me. I won’t lie; this kind of
seriously broke me
up in a way
I did not expect.
Tell me – did you find everything
or are you just as confused as I? Because
right now, I don’t have a clue.

To The Pentapod

You are a most curious
tree. I’ve never seen a
pentapod such as you. Did
you walk here, upon your
five roots? Was the journey
long, dear pentapod?

If You Ever Come Here

When I am here, I wonder
if you ever come here,
or even just drive by.
I wonder if, like me
you sit and listen to the brook
gargle and swallow endlessly.
Do you lift rocks to see
what resides underneath?
You did that with me,
you know, and uninterested, you left
me turned over and sought other rocks.

If you do ever come here,
for whatever reason, and rest
on this very stone, look to your
left. For there, is some curled
birch bark on which I have written
"I love you."

For there, is your heart.
(You may keep it. I've no
use for it anymore.)

The True Jo March

I am the true Jo March.
So many fakes have come
and gone, married to a man
they swore did not exist.

They would not marry.
They would dedicate
themselves to writing,
to swordplay, to theater.

Yet each were lured,
each heavy fish on fine
strings of gold or compliments
or promises.

Writing, swordplay, theater,
even, cannot provide
these things. These girls knew
this before these trifles swung before their eyes.

Jo March was not the true Jo March.
I am. She said, “I do,”
and I say,
“I won’t.”

Rain Awakening

Thunder woke me this morning
and I could not sleep anymore.
I tasted the rain on my tongue
and the nerves in my fingertips
were alight with electric
impulses.

I woke alive and new,
a raw worm sprouting
from cool, fresh soil.
The world quieted
as I built myself up, readying
to face everything in a downpour.

Entering

I entered your mother’s obituary
in the database today. It took
all of four seconds to type
out her name and the date.
After, I kind of stared at it,
waiting to feel something.
Despite everything, all I felt
was sadness.

Night Maps

Our eyes were fixed on the stars
fixed in the sky, blinking at us
as if they were staring right
back down. Maps lined
and gridded the sea of sky
above us, holding the stars
and planets in place.

Better

In the back woods, we let
the stream cool our hot
blisters, angry pink
and puffy from walking
all day without stopping.
We should have known
better, I suppose. But then,
it did not really matter.
And for all of it, I really
do believe we are the better
for not having known
better.

A Grave

I stopped by our bench today.
You know, the one where
you kissed me
you helped me down
you laughed
you smiled
and everything was perfect?

They had cut the tree
back some. For a while,
I kind of wondered
if maybe the seat
was in a new spot or something.
In the end, I decided
nothing had changed
but the trimming
of the tree.

A few more seconds,
I stood there, kind of lamenting,
kind of looking
at the spot as if it were
a grave.

Then I walked away
without even realizing it.

Starvation

It’s like this:
I’m starving. There is not
a single calorie left
from which I can squeeze
anything. This, I know,
is my own fault.

It has been like
this for years. I won’t deny
it. In these increments,
I have tasted this and that,
nibbled here, drank there.

But I have not truly
indulged in anything
since you.

The Truth of It

Nothing was as renewing
as that little stream in the back
of the woods. I spent hours
there, dipping my fingers in it,
breathing in the most recent air,
sucking it into my lungs and exhaling
luxuriously. On this day, I wanted
to remain for all of my time,
but I did not. It was not that I could
not, but that the weather scared me.
Clouds threatened overhead and the wind
began to stir and whip, and I felt
I had no choice.

But the truth of it is,
I did.