Day 2 - DetritusI squint my eyes as you kiss my freckled facemy sunstreaked hair out behind me like a bannerAs I emerge from the lake with foam and seaweed clinging to my calves.I make a face. You laugh.Longing is a savory dish we must sit down to dine,even as we cling together in a tired knot with mouths that taste of lemonade and alcohol.I whisper in your ear “I don’t want you to go.” The night before we left a storm broke with rain and thunder, and lightning webbed across the sky like lace. I came to where you slept, weaving myself into your arms.This is the detritus of summer:pearlescent driftwood graspe
MineThe past four years, I have been a nomad,A snail, whose house is wherever her back is.An hourglass constantly turned over and over, measuringTime until I leave, time until I return.I'm packing a bag with my toothbrush, my phone, and my fiancé's shirt to keep me warm –i won't be gone long, i only need a few days' worth of clothing.Life doled out in miniscule increments like the vitamins I portion into plastic baggiesAnd forget to take when I am gone.I've tired of living out of packed suitcases and half empty closets,With a roof provided, but my heart somewhere else.Filling out paperwork, what is my address?When
Cemetery LaneDriving down Cemetery Lane – Steering wheel gripped tightly, top and bottom, taking sharpCurves,As the radio host mourns the fate of Montana's coal industry.We'd go behind the school with the Grecian columnsIn a parking lot pooled with yellow streetlights, exploringThe darkness my mouth left on your neck.Driving and breaking too fastWith the memory of the way each bend winds around itselfLike solemn ribbons around the tombstones.Lying on a bed far from home – Pizza box kicked on the floor and the television flickering with the sound off.I cannot forget the way your skin brushed mine.
PurgatoriosI have sat in the mouth of Satan and heard his words,Tasted his fear.You also were there and rushed headlong into the black hole.The sand caught fire and we ran,Naked, noble, slicked limbs and flashing eyes.I rejoiced in my torment, and still I ran."Sorrow, not loathing has fixed itself so deep within my heart.It will be long before it is stripped away."Time slowed and we were forbidden to run.They ran around us, but you grasped me from behindAnd I could not kiss you.Higher we climbed, past greedy and virtuous,Lovers and killers and tyrants, allLeft behind.I am not sure if lingered long in the place where sins are
BrillianceI wasn't sure if I was falling asleep or drowning. Pastor Abilay had just reached the third point of this three-point outline and I was fading quickly. "The devil's 15 minutes," my father often called it. He would sit rigidly at the head of the dining room table after every Saturday dinner and warn us that just as the pastor reaches the place where Scripture is applied to our lives, we start to drift off due to the devil's influence. I always did, and it terrified me.Pastor Abilay's sermons were an odd blend of clinical Calvinistic theology combined with the self-assured charisma of a leader whose word was law. His sermons always made me fe
Come HomeCome Home The leaves were just starting to fall as Alexander Bartel wheeled his bike out of the garage and left for work. They had been yellow and orange for a few weeks, but red veins had gradually taken over until today, when, at the hands of an incoming cold front, they began to fall like rain. The wind had awoken him early and when he woke up, so did his wife, who glared at him in the dim morning light and rolled back over. Breakfast had been instant oatmeal and instant coffee and half a glass of pulp-free orange juice. Grace liked pulp and he didn't, so they bought two separate half gallons every week. She was just waking up when he le
The Stars Look Drunk Tonight (rewrite)The Stars Look Drunk Tonight"The stars look drunk tonight."Startled at the voice, I turned and saw a figure approaching me out of the darkness. I instantly recognized Barret by his violent red hair, which, combined with his pale skin, which were the only parts of him I could see. He tended to wear dark clothes, which now gave him the eerie disposition of a disembodied head and pair of hands."I didn't know the stars drank," I replied with a hint of sarcasm. Barret was rarely serious and usually said things just to provoke me."They don't. But they're so foggy and fuzzy. Like something happened to them and they're not shining straigh
Coffee to GoCoffee to Go The air was cold before but even colder when the breeze whistled through it like a paper airplane in a wind tunnel. Sunlight put up a valiant and futile effort to fend of the deep chill and sunk in despair behind a cloudbank. The wind kept blowing. Today was the sort of day where lovers go out and mope on park benches or bridge railings, not necessarily because they had been jilted or because they had even loved the girl that much, but because it was the kind of day that makes one want to freeze their behind off for love’s sake. In contrast, it was an exceedingly beautiful day. The sun was consoling itself by mak
Day 4 - QuietAutumn began and ended quicklySo now the sun sets early and I spend my evenings in the dark.Today’s thoughts are quiet ones -Where we love is where we live and die.
Day 3- North StarIt was dark when I left work today,And I shivered as the wind slid around my bare legs.(shouldn’t have worn a dress today, says the voice in my head.)I try my best to ignore it. I always do.I swear familiarly, angrily, when traffic is backed up at the bridge again – This traffic congested tangled metal thing spanning the riverLike some kind of urban jungle gym.But still it is the northern star of my commute and points the long way home.I’m perched on a stool in his mother’s kitchenWith a mug of orange tea in my hands and a bowl of chicken soup with dumplings in front of me.On the way home, my debit card is
Day 1- Cold HandsEveryone said a storm was coming but I did not prepare.Perhaps I was too flippant or afraid to acknowledge?Probably the latter – Avoidance is my middle name.The storm’s precursor:Grey skies, and rain hissing its way up my windshield as the wipers, groaning,Flung it away.A low front settled into my chest midafternoon at the thought of leaving.Now, I sit on the couch by the window, watching the rain fallAs the cold gradually seeps from my limbs and my fingers thaw slowly.But isn’t a blanket a small comfort compared to you,Immediate and present, mouth tasting ofSour apple and blood?
Day 15 - SiltThere is a downward pull that begins slowly –Forty years of fine red silt cease flowing through your veinsAnd settle like sedimentary rock.Things, and you, begin to taste of copper.Lavender mists condense as you walk out to fetch the paperThe kettle is whistling or the coffee roiling when you return to the kitchen.Your lover is waiting, his beard and hair greying slightly:Sometimes he still kisses you like he did when you were twenty three.You start to spend your evenings in the ochre lightOf sloppily-painted sunsets which begin around the time the theme for Final Jeopardy fades out.Coffee cups are washed, sinks drained. Ev
Sta.sh
