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
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
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
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
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
