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
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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 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
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
The City of Rain and Coffee 