she told me:
it ebbs and flows
today I observed two monarchs
in someone else’s garden
and I thought about calling you
but I decided to keep it to myself
(you laugh when I tell you the moon is my favorite celestial body
but I think you understand
because your favorite part of our weekend
was driving home in the twilight
when the sky was deep blue and silver
and the countryside dark and still)
so today I choose to observe alone
but I know that maybe tomorrow
when the cold wind brings me nostalgia
I will tell and you will listen
even if you do not fully understand
and I’ll look for wildflowers
to stop and identify along the way.
Maybe I’ll sketch the Blue Ridge
and you’ll ask me to navigate
but I’ve decided to abandon control with the city.
Keep heading South
and let me call you darling.
I promise to write poems about you
if you promise not to turn around.
You feel like home
and I know you like the life you’ve built here
but I love it when you take me far away.
one year ago
over oatmeal in the morning,
we sat close so our knees touched
and in your truck, i held your arm
as the mountains flew past
or, as we flew past the mountains
you kiss me goodbye as i head out the door
and though it is quick, it remains
i make dinner in the skillet,
burning my thumb
you bring me ice
and clean up the dishes
and so now, we enter something new
and yesterday, as well
i have decided that
and then i step through the doors
and see her,
eyes sunken, gaze solemn
head held up by the palm of her
what do i know about anything, really?
it is not enough to
repeat the same
there is meaning
in the way we
tired and lonely
if i could
the weight of
her suffering for
if i could
the burden of
her pain for
if i could
i think i would
than i did
Morning in an unfamiliar place.
I recognize my bed and I know
Who he is but we’ve never been here
Before. Of course I am awake first.
Panic attack behind a shut door.
Now this is a place I’ve been before.
My face in the mirror won’t say why
I can’t just move one day at a time.
Joan Didion on my bedside shelf.
Painting of my soul above my bed.
Last night he saw only my body,
But this room speaks volumes about me.
Back in bed as he begins to stir.
I move away as I wonder if
He solely remembers how I taste.
But he grins and says, “The White Album.”
I see you in earth tones:
green when you round the corner on the trail in front of me,
brown when you pick me up again clean and fresh from a day in the sun,
gray when you move in close and shine your hungry eyes into mine.
and I know that I am the deep purple of twilight
shining with stars yet murky with shadows.
but I think the day and the night,
like the sun and the moon,
are better when they blend together
as dusk and dawn.
his arms do hold me,
but not to keep me
safe or possessed or
rather, to offer me
his warmth and to
share in some of