The Unfamiliar Love of the Broom and the Mop.
Closing time has never been so lonely
one by one the lights are lost
and the nervous tapping of her fingertips
makes music in this vacant room.
The janitor comes
and the dance of mop and man begins
in the shadows it is more elegant
than satin sheets and ivory skin.
Closing time has never been so beautiful
the echoes of heels on hardened floors
create a tempo that sets a pace
and eyes are met with quickened breath.
She had felt so brushed off
as if stray hair on a face
only to realize
she was about to be swept away.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
2005
What About Romeo?
Dear Pat,
You are so lean and shy
Your fair skin shines lonely
In a crowd of people
Who notice you
But never really see you.
Pat,
Earlier in the year we were cast in the same play.
But never once did I sit down to ask you how you were doing
False smiles overflowed
From your young hands
Cupped to collect anything from strangers
You wanted to get to know.
You were alone, Pat
But yet you never once blamed us
You just smiled
And let high school distance us
From you
Because you were afraid of confrontation
Or even saying hello.
At the end of the year
I received a letter from you
In which you thanked me Pat
You thanked me for being so nice to you
And I wanted to cry
Because though I was courteous
I had never intended it to mean so much.
Graduating made me realize
That I will never have the chance to be cast with you again
And no longer can I do what I should have done so long ago
Pat, if given the chance to go back again
I would look you in your eyes
And ask you how you were doing
And I would smile at you
With eyes that actually saw you.
Everyone casually picked on you
Like lint from clothing
And though it was never intentional
I did it too.
And while you never seemed to notice
I wish I would have wrapped my arms around you
And told you
I wanted you to be my friend.
Dear Pat,
You are so lean and shy
Your fair skin shines lonely
In a crowd of people
Who notice you
But never really see you.
Pat,
Earlier in the year we were cast in the same play.
But never once did I sit down to ask you how you were doing
False smiles overflowed
From your young hands
Cupped to collect anything from strangers
You wanted to get to know.
You were alone, Pat
But yet you never once blamed us
You just smiled
And let high school distance us
From you
Because you were afraid of confrontation
Or even saying hello.
At the end of the year
I received a letter from you
In which you thanked me Pat
You thanked me for being so nice to you
And I wanted to cry
Because though I was courteous
I had never intended it to mean so much.
Graduating made me realize
That I will never have the chance to be cast with you again
And no longer can I do what I should have done so long ago
Pat, if given the chance to go back again
I would look you in your eyes
And ask you how you were doing
And I would smile at you
With eyes that actually saw you.
Everyone casually picked on you
Like lint from clothing
And though it was never intentional
I did it too.
And while you never seemed to notice
I wish I would have wrapped my arms around you
And told you
I wanted you to be my friend.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Snow
A girl I call friend
passes a straw
and a piece of glass adorned with a
white line.
The glass reflects my face
and
I
cannot
recognize
myself.
What is this?
These are not my friends
Those are not my drugs
This is not my
life.
The girl who stares back at me in the mirror is
distorted.
Showing only bits and pieces of
herself,
Peering out through powder flecked
residue.
Thin white bars
a jail she can't escape.
passes a straw
and a piece of glass adorned with a
white line.
The glass reflects my face
and
I
cannot
recognize
myself.
What is this?
These are not my friends
Those are not my drugs
This is not my
life.
The girl who stares back at me in the mirror is
distorted.
Showing only bits and pieces of
herself,
Peering out through powder flecked
residue.
Thin white bars
a jail she can't escape.
Mermaids
I remember sleepovers
and the cupped-hand giggles
that erupted
from our mouths
in quiet graceful waves.
I remember whispers about boys
long after my mother
had said goodnight, and turned out the lights.
Confessions carelessly offered up
between cousins
secrets kept
safes of information with
impenetrable
locks, this
I remember.
Play pretend in pools
mesmerized by movies
tanning in the heat of Arizona sunlight.
But mostly I remember
how those bonds of friendship have
never broken
and how twenty years later
(my baby cousin)
you are still my best friend.
and the cupped-hand giggles
that erupted
from our mouths
in quiet graceful waves.
I remember whispers about boys
long after my mother
had said goodnight, and turned out the lights.
Confessions carelessly offered up
between cousins
secrets kept
safes of information with
impenetrable
locks, this
I remember.
Play pretend in pools
mesmerized by movies
tanning in the heat of Arizona sunlight.
But mostly I remember
how those bonds of friendship have
never broken
and how twenty years later
(my baby cousin)
you are still my best friend.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Seconds
The reasons I love you remind me
of stars.
Too numerous to
count,
but each with the ability
to help light my way
home.
of stars.
Too numerous to
count,
but each with the ability
to help light my way
home.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Pumpkins
He has blonde hair and hazel eyes. Not brown. There's a sort of light that stays in them, that keeps them from becoming completely brown. They're beautiful. He's tall and when he wraps his arms around me I fit inside his shape perfectly. When he laughs it makes my heart jump. Faintly. Discreetly. Politely. When I do something he thinks is cute he wrinkles his nose. He wears a bracelet on his left wrist that makes him look manly. He's the guy every girl wants to love her. Dominate. Attractive. Polite. Gentlemanly. Sweet. Who knows how to kick someones ass but also knows how to keep their cool so they don't have to. The bad boy with the good heart. The Hollywood icon.
Until him. I felt this need to rush into love. If love was cliff diving, I took a running start. I closed my eyes. And I leapt. I felt the exhilaration of the fall and the painful landing. It would take months to completely heal from it. Not only the pain from the inevitable impact, but the pain from allowing myself to leap again. To fall in love without thinking. To impose identities onto the men I loved who they weren't, and more than likely would never be.
The love I have for him breaks the mold I had made for myself. I walked slowly to the edge, allowing myself to take in the scenery. I let my toes hang off the edge and grip the ground beneath me. Held my arms out. Left my eyes open. Tipped my head back, and breathed deep. I let the wind move my hair, heard the rustling of leaves around me. And then I suddenly knew. With him, I didn't need the dive to feel the fall. The experience of knowing all the details, of learning things slowly and processing them, of realizing that I'm in love with the man and not just an idea of him.
His eyes are the shade you get when you mix chocolate and caramel. And every time we lock eyes, it reminds me that I'm falling, even though I'm still completely grounded. That every preconceived notion I had about love is essentially wrong. That I not only know his past but want to know more of it. That I not only hear it but accept it and love it because it makes him who he is today. That I don't have to be flawless to be thought of as perfect. That men can listen (yes really listen) and still love you. That he can see me. Every slip up, every mistake, every regret in my past, and still think I'm his princess.
That sometimes, happily ever after's aren't just made for fairytales,
And sometimes, your prince does come.
Until him. I felt this need to rush into love. If love was cliff diving, I took a running start. I closed my eyes. And I leapt. I felt the exhilaration of the fall and the painful landing. It would take months to completely heal from it. Not only the pain from the inevitable impact, but the pain from allowing myself to leap again. To fall in love without thinking. To impose identities onto the men I loved who they weren't, and more than likely would never be.
The love I have for him breaks the mold I had made for myself. I walked slowly to the edge, allowing myself to take in the scenery. I let my toes hang off the edge and grip the ground beneath me. Held my arms out. Left my eyes open. Tipped my head back, and breathed deep. I let the wind move my hair, heard the rustling of leaves around me. And then I suddenly knew. With him, I didn't need the dive to feel the fall. The experience of knowing all the details, of learning things slowly and processing them, of realizing that I'm in love with the man and not just an idea of him.
His eyes are the shade you get when you mix chocolate and caramel. And every time we lock eyes, it reminds me that I'm falling, even though I'm still completely grounded. That every preconceived notion I had about love is essentially wrong. That I not only know his past but want to know more of it. That I not only hear it but accept it and love it because it makes him who he is today. That I don't have to be flawless to be thought of as perfect. That men can listen (yes really listen) and still love you. That he can see me. Every slip up, every mistake, every regret in my past, and still think I'm his princess.
That sometimes, happily ever after's aren't just made for fairytales,
And sometimes, your prince does come.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Numb
I remember certain things, though the whole picture doesn't quite come together the way it should. Like a jigsaw puzzle, pieces are missing. Pieces that have the ability to make the story sensible.
I remember that I was sixteen. I was blond. I had arms that liked holding his when we were in bed together. We took naps, after school. When he wasn't angry, when he wasn't mean, being around him was enjoyable. Comforting even. As if somehow a day going by where I didn't make him upset made me more worthwhile.
And there were bad days. I remember this one day. This one day his alarm clock had stopped working. He had to get up to check his sisters clock. Just shifting wrong was all it took. He got up, disappeared, and I heard something fall. I remember the hammering my heart would easily resume, as if it knew the steady thump thump thump was merely precautionary, that something dangerous was always looming around the corner in the dark. He came at me. He was yelling and though I heard him, they were words I did not understand. Nothing had happened to make him so angry. And then he was grabbing me. Yanking me towards the door. He was upset and I couldn't calm him down. He screamed that he hated me. That if I ever came back to his house he would slit my throat and leave me for his parents to find. He kept screaming at me to get out. To get out and never come back.
And I left. I left and with every step I took my heart broke because I couldn't understand what I had possibly done to make him turn into the person I was scared of. I came home and fell into my bed and cried until I couldn't see out of my eyes. And then I just laid still. Hoping if I could stay still enough my chest would stop aching.
Hours later, I got a phone call. And he asked where I had gone. And he started promising me he had a rage black out. That he had hardly remembered what he had said. When I told him he sounded so crushed. He told me how much he loved me. How sorry he was. How he would never do anything like that to me again. How important I was to him. To please forgive him. That I couldn't possibly understand what it felt like to even go a second thinking I walked away from him. That nothing like that had happened before and nothing like that would ever happen again.
And of course I should have known better. It was not the first time he had done something so hurtful. But I foolishly believed him. Hoping, needing him to have meant it this time when he said he was sorry.
I took him back. The next time he got mad he threw a white board at me and caused an injury so bad I still have calcified blood in my leg from it.
I realize our stories are different. I realize your stories are much more intense. Much more violent. And scarier.
But don't you ever tell me I don't understand your relationship. I walked away. I know how hard it is. And right now, the only thing that makes us different is that I'm obviously much stronger than you.
I remember that I was sixteen. I was blond. I had arms that liked holding his when we were in bed together. We took naps, after school. When he wasn't angry, when he wasn't mean, being around him was enjoyable. Comforting even. As if somehow a day going by where I didn't make him upset made me more worthwhile.
And there were bad days. I remember this one day. This one day his alarm clock had stopped working. He had to get up to check his sisters clock. Just shifting wrong was all it took. He got up, disappeared, and I heard something fall. I remember the hammering my heart would easily resume, as if it knew the steady thump thump thump was merely precautionary, that something dangerous was always looming around the corner in the dark. He came at me. He was yelling and though I heard him, they were words I did not understand. Nothing had happened to make him so angry. And then he was grabbing me. Yanking me towards the door. He was upset and I couldn't calm him down. He screamed that he hated me. That if I ever came back to his house he would slit my throat and leave me for his parents to find. He kept screaming at me to get out. To get out and never come back.
And I left. I left and with every step I took my heart broke because I couldn't understand what I had possibly done to make him turn into the person I was scared of. I came home and fell into my bed and cried until I couldn't see out of my eyes. And then I just laid still. Hoping if I could stay still enough my chest would stop aching.
Hours later, I got a phone call. And he asked where I had gone. And he started promising me he had a rage black out. That he had hardly remembered what he had said. When I told him he sounded so crushed. He told me how much he loved me. How sorry he was. How he would never do anything like that to me again. How important I was to him. To please forgive him. That I couldn't possibly understand what it felt like to even go a second thinking I walked away from him. That nothing like that had happened before and nothing like that would ever happen again.
And of course I should have known better. It was not the first time he had done something so hurtful. But I foolishly believed him. Hoping, needing him to have meant it this time when he said he was sorry.
I took him back. The next time he got mad he threw a white board at me and caused an injury so bad I still have calcified blood in my leg from it.
I realize our stories are different. I realize your stories are much more intense. Much more violent. And scarier.
But don't you ever tell me I don't understand your relationship. I walked away. I know how hard it is. And right now, the only thing that makes us different is that I'm obviously much stronger than you.
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