Loose Scraps of Paper

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.

loose-scraps-of-paper

Box of Paradox

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.

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

of coldness

or kindness

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,

while imaginary,

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.

Wanting to Paint Tomatoes

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#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.

Follow the Hands

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

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.

our knees will smell like mud

A Member of the Audience

It is hard to believe that

we are the occasion

for this pageantry,

this crescendo,

these smiles and makeup and grand

gestures,

all this effort,

this art.

Broken and rough–

we don’t seem to be

the final version

of anything,

whisking around

our scrambled

brains,

steam rising

from our milk hearts.

At our center are

unknown substances.