8/31/2007

Simple moments kept in time

by the swaying of tree limbs

against afternoon sunlight.

Blinking clouds behind the sun.

And I see you there…

See you looking with your soft eyes,

Golden in dappled shadow.

I like to watch the movement of the earth as it swings its axis beneath our ankle bones.

Smoothly rocking the world in slumber.

And the changing of leaves

leaves me wondering…

Waiting for the moment when the grass beneath our feet turns brown,

and the world is covered in crystal.

The stark branches left bare to tickle the skies.

You wait patiently for me here

To walk my stumbled footsteps back …

To take your turn in time.

Remnants

She fumed. He sulked. That was the way things worked. An all too familiar routine after seven years in the same house and a hundred times that many arguments. He had left the seat up again. Walked out of the bathroom and forgotten to put the seat down. Again. They’d fought over it last night. Every little thing about him seemed to get to her now. His faults were no longer cute eccentricities; they were glaring obstacles between her and happiness. She didn’t know how it had changed. Or, she did, but didn’t want to remember it.

The drive home from work was quiet and she knew she’d have the house to herself for a little while before he came home. Work had been a mob scene, no real surprise there, but the frustration always fed the anger. Anger with him, anger with the world. Maybe some anger with herself. But the quiet and the promised alone-time gradually cooled the heat inside her skull.

She pulled up to the white washed ranch house with its perfect square of green lawn and wondered when such a home could have ever appealed to her.

The bushes alongside the walkway were untrimmed. The heat started to seep back behind her eyes. He just refused to get up off of his ass and do a simple bit of yard work. Was trimming the bushes too much to ask? No, of course not.

She walked up to the door and dug her key out of the garbage dump that was her purse but the knob turned easily. The door was unlocked? Why was the door unlocked? Oh, he must have left it unlocked that morning after going to work. What the Hell? Anyone could have just waltzed into their house and taken anything that they’d wanted to! She pushed the door open with more force than intended and it banged against the wall.

And there he was. Sitting on the couch with a beer in his hand watching some talk show. The unexpected sight of him stopped her for a minute. He wasn’t supposed to be home yet. And when had he started drinking again? She couldn’t remember. Maybe he’d never stopped. The fire under her skin blazed back to life. That’s right, maybe his sobriety was just another lie to add to the ever-growing pile.

“What are you doing home?” Her voice was sharp. His head turned toward her just a little too slow. More than one beer then.

“Oh. Hi honey. Nishe to shee you too.” The slurring grated on her nerves. Her nails were starting to leave little crescent shapes where they dug into her palms.

“Don’t you ‘honey’ me! What are you doing home? You’re supposed to be at work.”

He rolled his eyes. “Not anymore," his mumbled reply alomost below the audible level.

“What is that supposed to mean?” His eyes narrowed.

“Exactly what I said!” She’d finally made him angry. “Not anymore!” He was glaring at her now. His anger burning away the drunken haze and some of the man she used to know glimmering at the back of his eyes. But it was too late to find that man now.

“What are you saying? That you got FIRED!” She slammed the open door behind her, the neighbors did not need to hear this, and stalked over to stare incredulously at him from the arm of the couch. He stood up to meet her.

“You would think that, but no, I didn’t! I QUIT!”

“You... what? You. Did. WHAT? Oh My GOD! How could you, you goddamned drunk! We need that money! What the Hell is wrong with you?”

“Oh yeah, that's right, call me the drunk why don’t you? Let’s see how many empty bottles you’ve got hidden in your closet, you hypocrite!” Her eyes went a little wide at that. How could he…? Her hand went up to her mouth. She felt like she was going to be sick. She couldn’t breath. The room swayed.

“Are… are you alright?” She looked up at him from under her eyelashes. Was that worry she saw in his face? Some sliver of concern? But why? It’s not like he loved her anymore. Not like he really cared. He’d proved that one too many times already with one to many... But no, she’d promised she wouldn’t think of that. She had to pull herself together.

“No, I’m fine. I’m going up stairs.” She willed the weakness of her knees to recede. Ignored the pounding in her head. The concern drained out of his eyes.

“Yeah, alright. Fine. I’ll see you later.”

“Mmh, sure.” She made her way slowly up the stairs. Her body seemed too heavy and she couldn’t stop those other women’s faces from replaying in her head. She'd never actually seen them but she knew, she'd always known, and she couldn't keep from imagining what they'd looked like with his hands in their hair. It was always like this after she'd fought with him.

His voice stopped her halfway up the staircase. “Baby?”

She could just see the profile of his face against the television screen. Her vision seemed to be tunneling.

“Yeah?”

He looked at her. His expression was raw but she couldn’t quite place the emotion. Pain maybe, confusion. Some remnant of love.

“I think I want a divorce.” She would never forget his face like that.

“Yeah, okay.”

Untitled

Wandering moments.
Wrapping round my fingertips.
Sliding
up the veins in my arms.
Coating my nails in dreamy slickness.
Slippery melodies sung breathless.

Rushing over my shoulders
in waves wound golden
Flowing down my chest,
my hips,
my legs,
Into the ground…
worn smooth
Beneath my feet.

Sneaking up the curve of my neck,
To push its way
between my teeth.
Resting cool between my molars.
Silencing my tongue.

Stretching fingers up the back
of my throat.
Tingling in my sinuses.
Reaching for the nerves behind my retinas,
soaking up color.

Expanding into my skull,
my lungs,
Wrapping my ribs in stretch denim.
Rough to the touch.

Inspirational Organics (Whitman Poem)

Organically speaking, of course, I tell you my secrets.
Lying by the riverside with the sun on my skin.
Twirling fingers through water twisting daintily between smooth stones,
On its way to the sea.

I take the world to my heart and breathe you in.
Your essence binds me,
Holds me to myself,
As I rush recklessly on toward new ideas.
Inhaling the woodsy scent of your thoughts.

This is eternity.
This soft pressure in my skull that lays me back.
Back into pulsed memories heavy with the smell of your skin,
The exhalations of sighed breaths that play hide and seek with the shadows of trees in summertime.
Twisted fingers to wrap us in pure selfishness and make us whole.

The sycamores rustle and sweep the sky,
Raining pieces of their wisdom to catch in my hair.
The grass whispers secrets in my ears and the stream slips softly to the sea.

Bringing Back the Dead

I stood in the middle of the kitchen floor and counted my breaths. The sun through the window was warm on the side of my face but the laminate tile under my toes chilled my skin. I listened to the house creak sleepily and shift with the passage of insects in the ground beneath its foundations, as if it had an itch it couldn’t quite reach to scratch.

The air seemed empty. The scent of tobacco had long since faded and the echo of his laughter had stilled. His image had ceased to replay in my head, and I wondered when that happened. I can’t remember anymore.

But I remembered the day I heard it. The news. That he was gone. The Valentines decorations were still on the table and I could recall exactly what I had written on his birthday card. I used blue pen, because he always did.

My mother had walked in the door and I knew. Something about the way her shoulders met her neck that day told me with more certainty and sorrow than words ever brought. I had stood on this floor and listened to the tears drip from my eyelashes. Waited for the squeal of his stool by the counter as he sat down to pour himself one last drink. Smoke the one last cigarette he must have craved after giving them up to the tar that ate his lungs.

The stool never moved.

And now I stood. Slightly to the right of where my uncle dropped the screwdriver. I could hardly picture him anymore.

The mirror on the wall reflected my startled features when I heard the floor behind me creak. It was like a horror movie take. When the character on screen turns in slow motion. Multiplying the tension until your skull is ready to explode. That moving through water feeling when you don’t really want to see what’s behind you. It seemed I turned that slow.

I turned so slow that when I finally got him in my sights I was almost prepared. Almost didn’t jump, almost didn’t gasp. Almost.

“What are you afraid of sweet pea?” he said.

I was five again. My head barely brushed the underside of the kitchen table and I looked up at him through eyes glazed with hero worship.

“I’m not afraid Papa. I was waiting for you.”

“I know you were sweet pea. I’m here. Now where’s my hug?”

7:53

Purple sky smells of peachy shadow
Frantic
With a show of storm
Running vibration in my bones
Standing my skin in pinpricks
With ozone sinking on the air.

And the ripples on the pond
slide in sequence to lap the bottoms of my feet
To send my veins rushing
when
the prickle
of wetness
hits my hair
roots.
And the flash behind my eyelids flames the sky.

The trees rustle and groan
with the weight of restless wind
Complaining in the rumble of the earth
and the whisper of cloud conversation.

We sway to the movement of the storm.

Silhouette

And your misty silhouette soaks into my eyelashes.
Palms stained in charcoal and caked in mud…
Fingers clawed.

Your nose was too long,
slightly crooked,
And your mouth turned down in the corners.
You rarely showed your teeth.

Your eyes were dull.
Lightly filmed with years and cynicism.
The world was always your enemy,
And your tongue was sharp.

I used to look at you.
Trace the lines of you features.
Outline your shadow in the dirt.

You refused to look at me.
Stared at anything else when I spoke…
Sent you gaze to roam walls,
paper stained and peeling.
Past broken ceramic,
Dust three layers thick.

But never toward me.
Never at my face.
Never to meet my eyes.

I was invisible.

Your eyes were blue.