poems

envy

Forgotten lives

have the most to tell us

about making it through ours

Lost in their times

swallowed up by the stories

that carried into ours.

Their shadows long gone

the billions unspoken

knew without understanding

their place in the grand arc of time

they held whatever joy they could

the best they knew how

to find delight

in between the rest

History tells us as much about ourselves

as phones tell us about each other

as science tells us about what makes us care

We’re separate, forcibly

still more uncaring

than we care to admit

Still there’s something, almost missing

in between our chests

that tells us something

about forgetting our lives

about losing what the fraying strands of History left behind

too long ago to recall

About what every other being

still understands without knowing

How they’ve kept their nature.

without even trying.

without a care for my envy of them.

our reduction

What does it mean to fight anymore

It’s all smooth-faced, puffy-lipped little girls 

fighting for each other’s attention

begging to be seen

It’s all little rascals sitting in the back of class

fighting to be known, yelling at their teacher

as a cover for something that cuts us deeper

We pretend, we put on this show

as if we really are that shallow and scared

All of us are and none of us are

so distilled, so reduced

so caught up in the tiny boxes we’ve built

Just hoping our complexity isn’t killed

Before the in betweens were stripped away

by spectacle and painted words

It was the silence

that carried the very thing we crave

It was the summer sun

searing our grass stained minds

and intoxicating us with a warmth so strong

It could be summoned

even in our final days

Instead we slice ourselves into bite-size bits

rehearse our ways of being

running in and out of frame

to keep up the illusion

that our richest parts

aren’t cradled in the mundane

So what does it mean to fight anymore

What does it mean to love

Is it enough

to shake yourself out of that little mold

so that you may recognize your own hands

and see your own children for who they really are

long after they’ve left your arms

everything

everything

lingers on the lips and hugs us in tight

everything

rocks us sweetly to sleep

in poorly-made blankets of dissonance

everything else

runs in circles

and justifies the echoes that never dare to bleed

nothing

asks us to stray too far from the bed we’ve made

or from the softness of fear that surrounds us

so tell me a little lie

of a newly painted world

where the night’s dream

takes away everything this day lacks

and takes a hold of my hand

until I can find a way to open my eyes again

spun

look outside the web you’ve spun

and you’ll see

you’re just a gnat

caught among the others.

flailing dots of life

shimmering spines

tendril tended

by some unknown wonder

weaving us back in

into the earth

her claws dig into the earth

scraping past wriggling lifeforms as they dive deeper into a buried haven

hoping to escape her notice, her ever-piercing gaze

but her eyes lurch forward, fixed

stable and guiding the smooth-muscled movements of the inky limbs beneath

drawing ever closer to her prey

waiting to sink

waiting to taste blood

and for what?

returning

from time to time

then slips into now

and the sheen of innocence returns

to a world that is bright

where my days are untethered

and the windows are wiped clean

and i see

just for a moment

with the wisdom of childish eyes

and just for a moment

all i do is breathe

questions for a leafblower

are you jealous of your brother wind

who swirls and dances with the fallen leaves

while you travel from porch to porch

methodically organizing death into neat piles?

does it bother you to see that scoundrel

undo all your hard work

in one carefree gust

do you feel powerless

dependent on the laborer who straps you to their side or back

while sister wind flows freely at a whim

do you suffer to watch your master

mindlessly point you in any direction

with no apparent forethought

at times, stripping living plants of their leaves

are you thrilled by the repetition

by the the rounds you make

to the same houses

week after week

do you like my porch

i hope not

please stop coming

ROSE

a rose never asked to be named

language-locked into a single idea

never enough to explore dynamism

the word was only apt in the moment of its creation

a rose will never tell you of its beauty

or of its plans to bloom

it never explains its thorns

or asks to be nurtured, carried beyond its natural failings

it simply is and does

and if we are listening and seeking

if we see and understand

from a place of no history, no future

we find the moment

of an ever-emerging ‘rose’