126.

building stair steps from my screen porch upward
to a silver moon, bare feet blue-washed in starlight
shoulder blades spreading outward
through my arms and fingertips with feathers
growing wings and walking skyward
in a midnight clear as day

you are like fresh air
in a good dream

Trial and Error

I am trying to stir you into my tea, in with the honey and the chamomile. Trying to fold you into my winter clothes, trying to work you into the dough of me to see what kind of bread we will make. I have been looking for someone like you and I am trying you on like an Easter dress, and will you kiss my curves and skirt my hips or will you press my ribs too tightly? It is hard to know how you fit until I start to sweat. Until I taste you in my tea and in my bread crust, until I wake up tomorrow refreshed or hungover. All I want is to taste relief in your mouth. To push my arms through yours like sweater sleeves. But just wait until August comes, and it's coming fast. And I will start to melt, and I will shrug you off. And the time for tea will have passed, and I will kiss some other lemonade mouth instead.

How To Start Again

get in touch with that feet-in-the-mud
feeling, that fist-against-mirror hard sting again
remind yourself what it is to ignite
to brawl and to crash and to embrace
and to write it all down

bring fresh flowers into your study
bring dead insects and bottle caps
the empty smoke bombs he left in the yard
and you found them like fairy treasure the next day
before you knew what was under his skin

and then remember what was under his skin
what you felt when he scraped himself into you
how livid you were, how purple-cheeked
bring the bile back up your throat
and then write it all down

get in touch with your whiskey-drenched nights
only leave the whiskey out this time
get in touch with what you hated
and what you craved, what you choked on
the things you've put in drawers by now

remind yourself what they tasted like
what it was to be miserable and ecstatic
collect your wildfires and your chest pains
the pieces of you that ache and dream
carve a space for them

keep them sacred, give them air
nurture your hunger and your terror
cultivate your joy and do not forget your hate
get in touch with what has been simmering in your gut
dig into the earth of yourself again

and whatever you do
you must write it all down

naiad

I am a splash and gurgle, playful like a cool drink and it is all spring and wind through the reeds until you drown in me. I am all ripple, all ribbon hair leaking outward into a halo around my face. Drifting backward while you think I am smiling. And I will tell you to swim a little closer just to see you at the drop off, when the water is past your waist and you did not know the lake ran this deep. I have watched brave men sink like rocks and float like logs, watched them breathe fresh water and surrender. And they have thanked me before the end. You can build river rafts to ride me, can build ships and fleets and navies and try to calm my skin, but I will hurricane swallow you down. I am vast and dark and ancient. And I am not afraid of you.

I Suppose We're Growing Up

and all at once we are older than we realized
turning out the lights before midnight
to get some sleep, because we deserve it now
because we have been staying up all night for ages
and this year has been a hell of a long day

and all at once I find you where you have always been
next to my hand, and your fingers find my palm
and they walk into the space between my knuckles
and your voice is over my head like a crown
you are taking nothing from me

we have wiped our slates and our bloodstreams clean
we have made space in ourselves together
and this is what I will keep in my pocket tomorrow:
the blue darkness and the velvet of you
and your mending hands

Blood Moon

the moon is red tonight
and I am frightened

that I never learned to exhale pain and heal
that I swallowed all my bad memories like baby teeth
and chewed an ulcer through my stomach

and my fingers are still prune-wrinkled
after soaking for years in stagnant water
salted and bitter and rheumatic
and combing my hair still takes hours

I am frightened that mirrors will still burn
holes in me, that I still need to cloak them
in wine-heavy drapes past midnight

that when you try to stoke your breath into my lungs
they will fill with rose paint and I will choke
bleeding thick and poppy-scented
all perfumed panting, panicked

but I have forgotten that I am only
nightmare-locked tonight, and pruned fingers
are only relics of this time last year

and blood moons pass, and I have learned by now
to drop a thread of silver sunlight into my paralysis
and even when the night is scarlet black
even when it is easier to stay asleep

dawn will still break in its time
and I will still be awake by midday

The First Time I Told You

fingers stretching cold toward your flame
I have been the gray sky and the thunder
and you have been the rain
that lets the ground drink fresh water

and my fences were never iron
only aging wood and lattice work around flower beds
and you have found the hinge and the gate

I have been shaking frozen
all bare branches and sleeping for months
but you have hung tire swings in me
you have reminded me of spring

and we have made a singing silence
blanketing ourselves in rest
we have woven safety nets like hammocks

and I have been waiting all this time
to tell you how much
I love you