There’s not an extra bone in their body that’s feeling something I don’t. They are just labeling their feelings differently.
I am not a stranger to the rain. I am not a hard-packed desert who at first storm-break will flood, reject the course of life that comes most naturally. I am soft enough to accept the storm without spilling– to soak sorrows into these old-growth forest bones and milk the life from gathering clouds to birth tender shoots reaching for the sun.
That last night we drove together the music so loud and your face so dim in the darkness while the rain blurred all your edges– I watched you, half-dissolved already, a distant planet, glow with celestial magic that might suspend time as everything sped away.
They say if you have trouble sleeping it’s because someone’s thinking of you. I’m sorry for those restless nights.
I called out of work sick again. Not sick really, but there are no words for feeling a danger signal where there is none. Dissatisfaction? Disquiet? An itchy paint plastered to my smile cracking in the corners like a sob. “What is it with you?” “It’s always something with you.” Poised on the threshold between coming and going inching toward the door inching toward the […]
and I lean back a little, slowing the pace of my speech. Because its hot in here– with the radiator and my cable-knit sweater and the words left unsaid in the spaces between.
The wrongness of winter rain on fresh snow– where do the snow fairies go in this world promised frozen?
Egg yolk mixed with pigment Life plus perspective, a tempera Birth curves of new skin on old walls Those which nourish set you free
but to pull myself together now would be to squeeze a palm of sand to stone without water, the healing crush of tears
Do not ask the sun who she shines for– though she illuminates the shadows of men her light is the product of a fire in her belly that cannot be extinguished or captured– she runs through fingers like gold.