Box

I'm going to get a box
big enough for all of it
Tales of the Thunderbolt Kid
and your copy of The Homecoming
with all the notes in the margins
(I nearly licked those words
off the edges of the book)
a collection of short stories
I never finished reading
I tried to love everything
you wanted me to like
like the album by Stars
with that song, "Ageless Beauty"
(I tried to know you in it
understand why you loved it)
Then I'll pack that t-shirt
soft grey, one of many
you probably never missed it
I'll fold it so it fits
next to all your other things
I won't leave a note
I'll just seal it up tight and
write your name outside
I'll drive it to the post office
and pay the postage myself
Then the box will go and
your books with your words
the damp smell of your apartment
(I'd stretch the pages to taste you)
It will all go and if I'm brave
there won't be a return address
 
5-22-13

Summer Drunk

it's the heat, it reeks of his smell
the place under the collar of his shirt
and edges of his long sleeves
 
how the air was too thick for sleeping
how I was constantly intoxicated
with the hum of his voice
 
I laid in the green sun reading
his books, breathing his fingerprints
heart beats between text replies
 
the blue sky kissed my shoulders
and thighs, grass ceilings always
bracing my body from ascension
 
how I existed in the space before
you with me and without was
sleepwalking and summer drunk
 
the heat hung like a red cloud
on my back, on my heels and
here the earth comes back
 
to this place around the sun
to break my sobriety
again and again
 
5-13-13
Originally published in Lummox Journal (2), November 2013

My Mother Taught Me

By direct or indirect means
things my mother taught me are
 
that makeup isn't that important
that shoes can often constrain you
warning signs can be challenges
and walls are meant for climbing
 
that authority must be questioned
that no one is really in charge here
elevator buttons must all be pushed
and puddles must be stepped in
 
that fancy restaurants are too serious
that dancing and singing heals the soul
school and work will still be around
even when you take the days off
 
that clothes are mostly functional
that limits are mostly imaginary
how pets are better than some humans
and the end is just around this corner
 
that children can still teach us things
that the emperor isn't wearing clothes
we make funny faces when we're angry
and to keep only things that lighten the load
 
5-12-13

Brown Eyed Boy (But Not a Boy)

You strode in with shoulders
of a man so much taller,
your eyes held back with the tilt
of your head and chin up.
 
I tried to see you coming from behind
but I was looking for the wrong boy.
There was this guy—not a boy—not a man
but same brown eyes, same brown curls
(and growing). It was you, undeniably.
Your brows were long and circles
under your eyes were set hard.
 
I know that posture so well,
I've seen it my mirrors past
and in my angry generation.
But you—not you—not your brown eyes,
I have your face memorized like song,
I have loved every inch of it.
 
I hoped you'd never be familiar
with clenching fists, scraping skin,
bracing the beat of your heart
to stop it from hemorrhaging,
it will callus thick like cartilage.
Grit your teeth and stare them down
without flinching and unbolt the windows.
 
I have only seen you as a child,
my hand-holding boy in the back seat.
But here you sit, defiant smile,
refusing to play nice—I'm listening.
You now at sixteen, elbows out
tired of rolling with the tide. 
 
You see none that qualifies, all their
smoke and mirrors don't fool us now.
We are all playing the part of the wizard,
but you're far too old for fairy tales.
I want to sing you to sleep, but you
are not six, you need more than lullabies.
 
You mapped the exits, found the weak hinges
(eventually, you'll see them everywhere).
I can't offer you shit, except how I get it,
I'll stop holding you to that promise
that you will invent that shrink-ray
and keep yourself a child for me.
 
5-5-13

Sonic Screwdriver

I wish I had a sonic screwdriver
I wish I had a magic wand
I wish I had a time machine
or pixie dust or a book of spells
 
I wish I had a genie lamp
I wish I had the holy grail
I wish I had a flying carpet
or a portal or an Atlantis key
 
I wish you were three
in the back seat of my car
singing an 80s Cure song
 
I wish you were sixteen
driving with me to open mic
singing an 80s Cure song
 
I wish my love was enough
I wish you weren't there
I wish you and me were anywhere
far and away anywhere else
 
5-2-13