The loose scraps of paper, on which she enjoyed writing, were liable to fly away if someone left a window open. But she firmly believed that fresh air blowing through the screens was the best– and certainly easiest– way to keep a house clean. So she allowed windows, and even sometimes doors, to be left open all hours in her household, and she trusted the breezes to loop her ideas back to her when she needed them.
Meanwhile, the cobwebs gathered in the ceiling corners, and at this rate would be pleasingly haunting by Halloween.
The word “cherish,” which I had etched in your ring,
always makes me think of cherries,
so I think cherishing
you is round and red and
Right, as in correct,
as in, I wish we didn’t hurt each other
with our words, as we sometimes do, because
it is those small moments
that pattern the matter.
You touch the tips of the fingers of your one hand
to the tips of the fingers of your other hand, as you say,
“We will probably never understand each other,”
(because I like being quiet and alone more than you do),
which really cuts to the stone at the center–
and not in a painless way.
The box we have drawn around ourselves,
still does confine us, and it is delicate.
I want to be in it with you,
and I need to hear that you do too.
#100daysofillustratingmypoems day 2
their red is an orange is salt and earth and wetness and is obscene.
tomatoes smell like toes dug into moist dirt, like vinegar seeping into crusted bread,
like bugs and leaves, and they look orange like the sun, like they are purring, there where they peek out from behind a leaf, a parchment thin leaf, and I can see that they have been drinking in the sun because they are golden and filled, heavy with juice.
the color of the tomatoes wants to come onto the canvas and be spread like seeds, like blood, and smeared in blocks, blocks that are tomatoes, smooth tomatoes that drop into my palm with gravity inside their skin.
Last night I dreamed about
Dad, a gesture he used to make
with his hands, and it brought back
the tenor of his voice, opened up a whole
pathway of memories and I was so close to
the forgotten jokes, it was like I was with him again,
and I knew I should’ve grabbed a notebook in the dark
and written it down, because now I can’t
remember the gesture.
The end of time will come one day,
and it may be during our annual Christmas Eve party.
All the guests will evacuate the house
through the basement door,
into the darkening afternoon-
our friends, family and neighbors,
crunching through the snow
in their dress shoes.
We’ll huddle in the brush
at the back of the property,
eating cookies with numb fingers
and sharing a bottle of Beaujolais
(which someone will have surely remembered to grab
from the buffet table on the way out the door).
Our knees will smell like mud
as we scrunch up, communing.
It is hard to believe that
we are the occasion
for this pageantry,
these smiles and makeup and grand
all this effort,
Broken and rough–
we don’t seem to be
the final version
from our milk hearts.
At our center are
We laughed on a pillow of snow,
having fallen backwards into deep
powder under the black sky.
The tips of my hair and the scruff
on his jaw collected snow
as we rolled around
like puppies. Tumbling with a handsome
boy in the muffled night, alone,
in the middle of a field,
and it still didn’t seem like enough.
I want to refract more light,
shine it out and
graze a basketball and feel the
as it springs back.
curved palm catches the ball,
and everything happens at once, the rubber and the squeak and the drip dribble loose wrist strong arm ballet of motion, sweat flinging out,
that is what I want to do–
unlock memories, the little red wagon,
or the smell of peonies,
and cause someone to
cry in the car
in recognition of
I am sorry I was not friendly
to the repair man
who came today to fix
He offered to help me
carry the grocery bag in from the car
as he came up the driveway.
I didn’t even expend the effort
to smile when I said
I questioned his judgment
on the reason the igniter broke,
and whether it really was the igniter
that was broken,
and he looked at me,
and said, “I do this for a living.”
I covered my cheeks,
“Sorry, I tend to offend people
with my questions.
Even my dental hygienist.”
After punching the request for new parts
into his computer, he turned to leave,
asking me, as he walked, if there was anything
else. “Well, do you know how to fix vacuums?” I asked.
“Because we have three broken appliances, and it’s