‘High-Functioning’

it can be quite a cross to bear — no – to haul

into this small office every day

with a smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes

my silent crucifix of ‘expertise’

no one knows of yesterday’s lorazepam

or the sharp-edged fangs of today’s plan

so i scrabble on the cobbled streets

to keep my precious cross with me

monsoon season

steamy breath of asphalt cigarettes

sandals slapping puddles and the dogs

scurrying, tails low, to avoid the raindrops

skittering across poppy petals

faraway thunder grumbles in

the half-sunny, half-black sky

and i keep walking, still

far from home

“still”

creeps into my poems lately

(check the last one)

I’m still young, I still write poetry, still

compel hands to hover over the keys,

fingers to tap out some muddled sentiment

on this hot whirring box of wires

missing my older poems written

at 19 when I was a little more wild

maybe more unaffected

I still have time (we all think this way)

to do something with my life

Melancholy

I do still get that strange thoracic ache

of childhood, which I used to call “homesick”

in order to make sense of the sudden lump in my throat and

the furtive thought YOU’RE NOT ALRIGHT!

At 28, I am still unclear why these pangs plague me,

catching me especially

as I drive through Granite weekday mornings

while I curse the clocks forever ticking forward, forward

when I haven’t yet figured out age 10 — so complicated

a thing to dissect. Still I have no name for this melancholy sense

that elbows against my stomach and lungs

shoving for space inside my very skin.

racing

I’ve been feeling a bit like a racehorse missing a leg

asked to run the most laps in my life

I’m a stupid fuck, trying to race when I can’t even walk

and dredging up words is such a chore when

I know there’s been something dark and creeping

nested under my ribs since birth

that I have failed to name

School St.

Churning away time, walking through dusk
Up dusty double track to the new subdivision
Great owl took flight from a fencepost
My dog straining to catch so many desert scents

Light drains from the sky, one pinprick star
Neighborhood kids pedal glow stick bikes

So tell me about everything in this town
Winding down School Street, your childhood home
Feet heavy with dew from cutting through yards
Sandals pad driveways, gravelly steps

I stall outside my house and linger
Ponder how to stretch the night longer
Let your silhouette recede under the streetlamp
Knowing sleep will elude me tonight

Outside/Inside

20200520_120438

I walked through the neighborhood before dusk
A lilac breeze blowing enough to wonder about a jacket, so
I tucked into myself a little tighter

Thinking isn’t it funny how I invite the natural world into my house
With my plants, my pets, my own body and all its strange/perfect biology
Into this place considered not-nature

Yet out here crows fly toting sticks for nests,
Poppies flourish in a violent orange,
Frost creeps through the grass even in June,
Tufts of cotton float through the sky,
as I shift between outside/inside

a million triangles

i didn’t want to lie
but i also didn’t tell you
as he was on me breathing
horrible decay on my cheek
i easily dissociated

to the mexican restaurant on main st.
where you told me you were adopted
and i folded my napkin into a million triangles

we studied each other with smiles
to communicate what words lacked
my throat choked with-love??
but it was much too early to say that

200 years ago

200 years ago I would have been biding my time
in a heavy wool dress gathered around my legs
hem growing dirty from the fire’s dust and ash
feet raw on an icy stone floor

Watching for the arrival of a stagecoach
or maybe a wiry boy on horseback
exhausted as he thrusts a tattered envelope
before my eager and nervous face

Maybe I would brew a cup of tea for the occasion
and sink into the old patterned armchair
or I would flee to a lonely field thick with snow
to slide that precious paper into my hands

But likely I would already be long-married
pressing a damp child to one shoulder
stacking wood on the fire as ice decorated the window
rushing to check on the rising bread for my husband

200 years ago I would have been more patient
less desperate to hear from you within the day
instead of indulging the itch to check
my texts, my emails, over and over

dirty

chai tea burns my palms as i wait
for the sun to break the morning chill
i light sandalwood incense, one stick after another
as if i am a chain-smoker
funneling my craving into this cane of resin
and i am hoping the spirals of smoke and
harsh words and scalding water
scour me inside-out, scrub me raw
from the bad things i have done and continue to do
because i do want to live
but there must be mud and mold and tangles of plaque
growing inside my chest and skull
for i talk about feeling dirty and
not knowing how to clean
to forgive myself