I love the sweet knife of the hyphen,
the gentle curve of the parenthesis,
cutting and folding
my poetry into kirigami
dissecting my emotions
so that they are enough not-mine
to stick to the paper
without scuttling into the corner.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Neglectful Amnesia
How sad we are, to walk away,
and leave our things behind—
our shoes
and toys
we used to love
—and yet, don’t seem to mind
the thoughts that slip,
(like melting snow)
our pasts that fade, and tear,
so that our childhood
cartwheels by
but we can’t see it there
We store our memories
in our brains—
through notes—in objects too—
and still it seems so long ago
I was in love with you.
We live to watch our deaths come on,
remember to forget—
I’m sure I’ll see you in my dreams
(but I’m not sleeping yet)
and leave our things behind—
our shoes
and toys
we used to love
—and yet, don’t seem to mind
the thoughts that slip,
(like melting snow)
our pasts that fade, and tear,
so that our childhood
cartwheels by
but we can’t see it there
We store our memories
in our brains—
through notes—in objects too—
and still it seems so long ago
I was in love with you.
We live to watch our deaths come on,
remember to forget—
I’m sure I’ll see you in my dreams
(but I’m not sleeping yet)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Where the Days Are Longer
He is certain that he left her in summer, swinging her legs in the warm and algae-covered lake, yet here she is in spring. She carries an umbrella and wears yellow boots, splattered with rain-churned mud.
“Rose?”
She shakes her head and laughs. “You always forget my name.”
He reaches for her umbrella, seeking shelter, but she backs away. “Violet, what are you doing here? You were swimming.”
The girl smiles. “That’s not it either, you know, but don’t worry about it.” She kicks at the ground, sending a spray of water and mud onto his legs. “And as to how I got here, well, did you think it would be summer forever?”
Nodding, he tries for the umbrella again, this time managing to brush it with a few fingers before she dances out of reach. “Of course it should have been summer forever, except when it was the other three seasons, but the point, Lily, is that you shouldn’t be here.”
She pouts. “You don’t love me anymore?” She hands him the umbrella.
Raising it over his head, he wipes the freezing rain from his face before answering. “Did I ever?” He chuckles at his own cleverness.
She claps her hands, beaming. “Exactly. . .you don’t! You did it, you did it!”
He frowns. “What are you talking about? Of course I love you, Daisy. I always have.” He smiles and gestures toward her. “Now come under here with me; you’re getting soaked.”
“Oh.” Now she frowns. “What’s the umbrella for?”
He laughs. “For the rain, of course!”
She tilts her head and points at the clear sky.
“What?” He stares at the dry road, the sun playing over the trees that line it. “But—”
. . .
He is certain that he left her in autumn, running underneath the maple trees and trying to catch the falling leaves, yet here she is in winter. She pulls a sled behind her and wears mismatched gloves crusted with dirty ice.
“Iris!”
She drops the sled’s leash and sniffs. “Nope. You can’t even get that right, can you?”
He is going to reach out for the sled, but checks the gesture at her tone. “Of course I—what did I do wrong, Jasmine?”
The girl snorts. “Wrong again. Please, don’t even bother.” She kneels, gathering snow and packing it together. “Aren’t you even wondering how I am in winter?”
Trying to smile at her, he can’t help but let his confusion leak into the expression. “Yes, of course. How are you in winter, Flora? I mean, why are you here? As to ‘how’ you are. . . grumpy seems to be the answer.” He eyes the sled again; it looks well-used, but still perfectly functional. She must have just ridden down the gentle slope behind her.
She rolls her eyes and stands. “You think you’re so funny.” Pulling her arm back, she hurls the snowball at him, hitting him in the face.
Flinching, but not in time, he wipes away the snow, feeling the ice crystals melt under his fingertips. “Aster, please. It was just a joke, of course. I didn’t come here to upset you.”
Her eyes light up and she leans closer, cupping his chin with one wooly palm. “Exactly, yes! You—”
He smiles, sliding so that he can kiss the line of her wrist that huddles between her glove and the sleeve of her parka. “I knew that you were just playing with me, Marigold. Of course! Now come on, let’s take the sled and go have fun.”
“Oh.” She yanks her hand away. “What makes you think we’d have fun with the sled?”
He laughs. “We’ll ride it down hills, of course!”
She frowns and spreads her arms. “But it’s flat for miles around.”
“What?” He stares at the barbed-wire fence stretched in a line as far as he can see. “But—”
. . .
He is certain that he left her in spring, singing something he couldn’t understand, her lap full of half-grown kittens tumbling over one another, yet here she is in autumn. She carries a trick-or-treat bag and is wearing a Halloween costume, a strange cross between traditional ghost and fairy princess.
“Ivy?”
She tilts her head to the side and giggles. “Not quite, but you can call me whatever you want.”
He reaches for the sack, his breath coming short and fast in the chilly air, and she pulls it just out of reach. “Briony, h-how did you get here? Weren’t you with the kittens?”
The girl grins and steps forward. “What was that about sex kittens?” She drops the bag and it lands on his feet, spilling over his shoes and onto the ground. “I can’t help but think that you would know how a person came to be. Or do you need a refresher course?”
Swallowing, he backs away, the candy that was on his shoes falling off. “That’s not what I meant, Fleur. I meant, of course, how did you get to autumn?”
She purses her lips. “Maybe I hitched a ride with a handsome stranger.” She leans toward him and presses her mouth to his. “I can give you all the sugar you want, you know.” Slipping her hand quickly into his grip and then out again, she smirks at him.
Raising his hand to find a piece of taffy, he wipes a strange smear of oil off it before answering. “You’re scaring me.” He intends to chuckle at the joke, but can’t.
She gives him a thumbs up, face creased with a plainer smile. “Exactly! I knew you could figure it out.”
He frowns. “Do? Do what? I feel like I don’t even know you, Delphinium.” For lack of anything better to do, he unwraps the sweet and pops it in his mouth. “I can figure that you’re different, of course.”
“Oh.” Now she frowns. “Why are you eating that?”
He shrugs. “Because it’s candy, of course.”
She shakes her head and recoils.
“What?” He spits out his mouthful, staring at the clump of tire in his hand. “But—”
. . .
He is certain that he left her in winter, shivering by the side of the road, too exhausted even to cry for help, yet here she is in summer. She carries an ice cream cone and wears jean shorts, tattered and splotched with white paint.
“Zinnia?”
She rolls her eyes. “Geez, I can never tell if you think you’re being funny, or if you really can’t remember. It’s Poppy. Poppy! How many times do I have to tell you?”
He reaches for her ice cream, hoping to steal a lick of it, but she steps back. “Oh, yes, Poppy. Of course. I remember. Did you come here to get warm?”
Poppy laughs. “Nice try, bucko, but no cigar.” She picks a glob of ice cream off her cone and flings it at him; it lands in his eye and stings badly. “I would have thought you’d guess that I don’t ever go to winter. Not really.”
Nodding without understanding her, blinking to get the ice cream out of his eye, he snatches the cone out of her hand. “Of course it’s nicer here in the summer, Poppy, but you shouldn’t be able to come here at all. Not if I’ve left you in winter.” Triumphant, he takes a bite out of the ice cream. It tastes bland, and the cold seems to shoot right up into his brain.
Hands on her hips, Poppy grins as she watches him. “Hurts, doesn’t it, Mr. All-Powerful?”
Raising his hands to his forehead, he wipes at it, trying to smooth away the agony. “No. And do you think I can’t handle pain? I can, of course. Lots. As much as I have to.”
She claps her hands, beaming. “And that is it exactly! Pain, and lots of pain, and—” Poppy giggles and pokes his shoulder “‘of course,’ you really have to.”
He frowns. “What are you talking about? It’s just brain-freeze, of course.” He gestures toward her. “Now come here and be quiet, and promise to stay where I put you.”
“Oh. No.” She makes a face. “I hated the ditch.”
He shivers and tries to tell himself that it’s just the last bit of the frozen treat making bumps rise on his arm. “What ditch?”
She clucks her tongue. “You remember. It was cold, and full of half-frozen mud, and I barely fit in it. One of my legs stuck out so that somebody ran it over by accident. I’d never stay there.” She half-smiles and shrugs. “All because I didn’t want to be just a summer girl, or an afternoon girl, or an around-the-edges girl.”
He licks his lips. “You’re lying.”
Poppy raises an eyebrow. “No. But I’m curious—which part are you objecting to? Do you even know?”
“Shut up!” He leaps, the anger rising in him familiar as he grabs Poppy’s throat, but his hands slide through and he falls. Confused, he looks up at her. “You’re dead. This can’t be real.”
She tilts her head and chuckles, and her form seems to wave like a heat mirage in his vision. “Why did you ever think it was?”
“What?” He stares at the emptiness above him, below him, and all around him. “But—”
. . .
He was certain that he left her, yet here she is.
“Rose?”
She shakes her head and laughs. “You always forget my name.”
He reaches for her umbrella, seeking shelter, but she backs away. “Violet, what are you doing here? You were swimming.”
The girl smiles. “That’s not it either, you know, but don’t worry about it.” She kicks at the ground, sending a spray of water and mud onto his legs. “And as to how I got here, well, did you think it would be summer forever?”
Nodding, he tries for the umbrella again, this time managing to brush it with a few fingers before she dances out of reach. “Of course it should have been summer forever, except when it was the other three seasons, but the point, Lily, is that you shouldn’t be here.”
She pouts. “You don’t love me anymore?” She hands him the umbrella.
Raising it over his head, he wipes the freezing rain from his face before answering. “Did I ever?” He chuckles at his own cleverness.
She claps her hands, beaming. “Exactly. . .you don’t! You did it, you did it!”
He frowns. “What are you talking about? Of course I love you, Daisy. I always have.” He smiles and gestures toward her. “Now come under here with me; you’re getting soaked.”
“Oh.” Now she frowns. “What’s the umbrella for?”
He laughs. “For the rain, of course!”
She tilts her head and points at the clear sky.
“What?” He stares at the dry road, the sun playing over the trees that line it. “But—”
. . .
He is certain that he left her in autumn, running underneath the maple trees and trying to catch the falling leaves, yet here she is in winter. She pulls a sled behind her and wears mismatched gloves crusted with dirty ice.
“Iris!”
She drops the sled’s leash and sniffs. “Nope. You can’t even get that right, can you?”
He is going to reach out for the sled, but checks the gesture at her tone. “Of course I—what did I do wrong, Jasmine?”
The girl snorts. “Wrong again. Please, don’t even bother.” She kneels, gathering snow and packing it together. “Aren’t you even wondering how I am in winter?”
Trying to smile at her, he can’t help but let his confusion leak into the expression. “Yes, of course. How are you in winter, Flora? I mean, why are you here? As to ‘how’ you are. . . grumpy seems to be the answer.” He eyes the sled again; it looks well-used, but still perfectly functional. She must have just ridden down the gentle slope behind her.
She rolls her eyes and stands. “You think you’re so funny.” Pulling her arm back, she hurls the snowball at him, hitting him in the face.
Flinching, but not in time, he wipes away the snow, feeling the ice crystals melt under his fingertips. “Aster, please. It was just a joke, of course. I didn’t come here to upset you.”
Her eyes light up and she leans closer, cupping his chin with one wooly palm. “Exactly, yes! You—”
He smiles, sliding so that he can kiss the line of her wrist that huddles between her glove and the sleeve of her parka. “I knew that you were just playing with me, Marigold. Of course! Now come on, let’s take the sled and go have fun.”
“Oh.” She yanks her hand away. “What makes you think we’d have fun with the sled?”
He laughs. “We’ll ride it down hills, of course!”
She frowns and spreads her arms. “But it’s flat for miles around.”
“What?” He stares at the barbed-wire fence stretched in a line as far as he can see. “But—”
. . .
He is certain that he left her in spring, singing something he couldn’t understand, her lap full of half-grown kittens tumbling over one another, yet here she is in autumn. She carries a trick-or-treat bag and is wearing a Halloween costume, a strange cross between traditional ghost and fairy princess.
“Ivy?”
She tilts her head to the side and giggles. “Not quite, but you can call me whatever you want.”
He reaches for the sack, his breath coming short and fast in the chilly air, and she pulls it just out of reach. “Briony, h-how did you get here? Weren’t you with the kittens?”
The girl grins and steps forward. “What was that about sex kittens?” She drops the bag and it lands on his feet, spilling over his shoes and onto the ground. “I can’t help but think that you would know how a person came to be. Or do you need a refresher course?”
Swallowing, he backs away, the candy that was on his shoes falling off. “That’s not what I meant, Fleur. I meant, of course, how did you get to autumn?”
She purses her lips. “Maybe I hitched a ride with a handsome stranger.” She leans toward him and presses her mouth to his. “I can give you all the sugar you want, you know.” Slipping her hand quickly into his grip and then out again, she smirks at him.
Raising his hand to find a piece of taffy, he wipes a strange smear of oil off it before answering. “You’re scaring me.” He intends to chuckle at the joke, but can’t.
She gives him a thumbs up, face creased with a plainer smile. “Exactly! I knew you could figure it out.”
He frowns. “Do? Do what? I feel like I don’t even know you, Delphinium.” For lack of anything better to do, he unwraps the sweet and pops it in his mouth. “I can figure that you’re different, of course.”
“Oh.” Now she frowns. “Why are you eating that?”
He shrugs. “Because it’s candy, of course.”
She shakes her head and recoils.
“What?” He spits out his mouthful, staring at the clump of tire in his hand. “But—”
. . .
He is certain that he left her in winter, shivering by the side of the road, too exhausted even to cry for help, yet here she is in summer. She carries an ice cream cone and wears jean shorts, tattered and splotched with white paint.
“Zinnia?”
She rolls her eyes. “Geez, I can never tell if you think you’re being funny, or if you really can’t remember. It’s Poppy. Poppy! How many times do I have to tell you?”
He reaches for her ice cream, hoping to steal a lick of it, but she steps back. “Oh, yes, Poppy. Of course. I remember. Did you come here to get warm?”
Poppy laughs. “Nice try, bucko, but no cigar.” She picks a glob of ice cream off her cone and flings it at him; it lands in his eye and stings badly. “I would have thought you’d guess that I don’t ever go to winter. Not really.”
Nodding without understanding her, blinking to get the ice cream out of his eye, he snatches the cone out of her hand. “Of course it’s nicer here in the summer, Poppy, but you shouldn’t be able to come here at all. Not if I’ve left you in winter.” Triumphant, he takes a bite out of the ice cream. It tastes bland, and the cold seems to shoot right up into his brain.
Hands on her hips, Poppy grins as she watches him. “Hurts, doesn’t it, Mr. All-Powerful?”
Raising his hands to his forehead, he wipes at it, trying to smooth away the agony. “No. And do you think I can’t handle pain? I can, of course. Lots. As much as I have to.”
She claps her hands, beaming. “And that is it exactly! Pain, and lots of pain, and—” Poppy giggles and pokes his shoulder “‘of course,’ you really have to.”
He frowns. “What are you talking about? It’s just brain-freeze, of course.” He gestures toward her. “Now come here and be quiet, and promise to stay where I put you.”
“Oh. No.” She makes a face. “I hated the ditch.”
He shivers and tries to tell himself that it’s just the last bit of the frozen treat making bumps rise on his arm. “What ditch?”
She clucks her tongue. “You remember. It was cold, and full of half-frozen mud, and I barely fit in it. One of my legs stuck out so that somebody ran it over by accident. I’d never stay there.” She half-smiles and shrugs. “All because I didn’t want to be just a summer girl, or an afternoon girl, or an around-the-edges girl.”
He licks his lips. “You’re lying.”
Poppy raises an eyebrow. “No. But I’m curious—which part are you objecting to? Do you even know?”
“Shut up!” He leaps, the anger rising in him familiar as he grabs Poppy’s throat, but his hands slide through and he falls. Confused, he looks up at her. “You’re dead. This can’t be real.”
She tilts her head and chuckles, and her form seems to wave like a heat mirage in his vision. “Why did you ever think it was?”
“What?” He stares at the emptiness above him, below him, and all around him. “But—”
. . .
He was certain that he left her, yet here she is.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Around the Edges
He can only write to her in margins,
scribbled notes
in books he thinks she might read,
poems inscribed between paragraphs,
sweet nothings cut off by a heavily-texted page.
He sits and composes and doodles,
dreaming of the day she’ll find them
and learn how he feels.
He loves her at every remove,
waiting for her to see,
never considering the possibility
that she already has. . .
scribbled notes
in books he thinks she might read,
poems inscribed between paragraphs,
sweet nothings cut off by a heavily-texted page.
He sits and composes and doodles,
dreaming of the day she’ll find them
and learn how he feels.
He loves her at every remove,
waiting for her to see,
never considering the possibility
that she already has. . .
It Always Goes Away
This blue!—
against the streetlights’ orange
against the dirty shine of the moon on the slush
against the cold that freezes my knee
into a stone egg
This blue!—
against the trees’ gray
against the light wafting from the city below
against the wind that carves slices
from my skin
This blue!—
against the sidewalks’ tan
against the starlight divided by branches
against the spreading dark that lurks
at my vision’s edge
(vibrant and deep and so bright it breaks my heart)
against the streetlights’ orange
against the dirty shine of the moon on the slush
against the cold that freezes my knee
into a stone egg
This blue!—
against the trees’ gray
against the light wafting from the city below
against the wind that carves slices
from my skin
This blue!—
against the sidewalks’ tan
against the starlight divided by branches
against the spreading dark that lurks
at my vision’s edge
(vibrant and deep and so bright it breaks my heart)
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Captivated Has Its Root in Capture
You write me love poems
cut out of magazines,
the unmatched letters skittering
across the page—
you tell me it’s romantic
and spontaneous and poetic
but all I can think of is ransom notes,
and the time we were in the museum five hours
because you wanted me to understand
Mondrian in the soul,
in the bones, like it was blood and breath
and I just liked the colors.
I have a headache and you will insist
that love can cure all ills,
but I’m fairly sure I’d rather rely on aspirin.
cut out of magazines,
the unmatched letters skittering
across the page—
you tell me it’s romantic
and spontaneous and poetic
but all I can think of is ransom notes,
and the time we were in the museum five hours
because you wanted me to understand
Mondrian in the soul,
in the bones, like it was blood and breath
and I just liked the colors.
I have a headache and you will insist
that love can cure all ills,
but I’m fairly sure I’d rather rely on aspirin.
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