I

the fan makes tired conversations
endless turns beat an uninvited rhythm
on the window sill
I listen to the deep night
perched on the table edge
staring at me while I fail to sleep
I did not ask for this
no matter how much you try to convince me
slowly pulling time through shadows
and darker places
I did not
close my ears fast enough
or my eyes
while the sun sipped
on the last moments of sky
I should have slept then
under the heaviness I felt
closed the curtains
not listened
to you
you would have me write more
about what no words can fill
or feel
unbearable
extraordinary
potholes
broken asphalt
concrete cracked and split in two
oh yes. things grow in the gaps
how could they not
with all the mud stuck in between
perfect for growing wildflowers
or weeds depending
you would have me write about love
as though in the darkness
somehow it would make sense
long enough
to articulate
you would have me write about brokeness
emptiness, loneliness
that you have dressed in love’s clothes
you would have me write in tears
in blood in memory
but I will not have it.
those holes remain
empty cups unfilled
in this deep night
you would have me pretend
in the sorting of words
somehow there would be healing
not more undoing
but I don’t believe you.
I don’t.
you would have me listen,
perched there like a dare
instead
close my eyes
fill my outstretched hand
and let me sleep.
please.
please.
I feel you the way holding my breath
pushes
chest heaves in discomfort
no.
these things you edge closer with
are paper thin
in their existence
I want more than shadows
you torment me with your thinking,
soft words and abandon
closing
one last turn
we will talk in the morning.
~

A robin hops through mud
and dead grass while I wait
Blue sky hiccupping white clouds
Sunlight interrupted
Spring wrestles with last snow
In the shadows of the lodge
Somewhere along the minutes and hours
today
I lost
Lost the light and laughter
Pulled down by tiny barbs
Hooked through skin
The robin looks at me
Before hammering his beak
into the bare unfrozen ground
Searching for supper
Vine lost in the lattice work
Empty garden
Waiting

I looked for you
along the shore
You were broken
before falling into the arms
of the lake
cradled for years
as the waves
smoothed the rough edges
and then left you
here among the others
to be found

underneath the tree
roots turn and seek
the shore
I sit among them
feet tucked against the wood
watching the creek
flow

somewhere beneath the bed
the roots take what they need
for the life of the tree
water and earth
to grow
fish swim
turtles bask in the sun

my heart hurts
in the cage of my chest
not even the birdsong
comforts
but I make no move to leave

somwhere in this moment
I breathe
into myself
and let the wind rise
within
perhaps to take me
up

coffee grown cold on the table
pages turned
pen picked up
put down again
standing on a cliff
I stare where the sky
meets the lake
too far away to dive in
what would I say
to the reflection of the moon?
would I join the conversation
between the waves?
or simply float
in the space inbetween?
if I were closer
maybe

you are perfect in a way I can never tell you
not that you shouldn’t know you are
you should of course
but the words are stuck inside me
wrapped tightly
in stubborn silence
trimmed with fear
of being misunderstood

today
your smile made me sit down
when at any other time I would
shuffle off to hide
your voice held me still
and I forgot for a moment
there was nothing else
but the question you asked.

in the gap no wider than a breath
fragile moment balanced
on the edge of glass
I found
my hand reaching
for yours
an invitation
to see through my eyes

tripping over myself
I could not muster
much beyond a fumbled answer
no recovery
lost in crimson
oh how I wish I could have
in that heartbeat
told you
how beautiful you are
and thank you
for noticing

you are perfect in a way I can never tell you
and that is ok.
there is always something lost
in the pinning down
and finding the words
plain enough
to be clear
but instead
I was and am content
to have
stepped silently
through the door
you held open for me

I see that bloody fruit:
an orange rolling away fro me
along a sprawling table
I reach to stop it from going further
but always it is just out of reach.
It rolls against the wood and glass,
mocking in its orangey ways
until it finds the table edge
and leaps into the nothing below.
fuck you orange.
Instead of looking for where
the citrus landed
I return to my chair at the table head
and stare at where it fell.
how could I let it get away from me
always beyond my frantic digits
leaning, grappling, flailing
over the space where it was?
how is it any different from the words
stuck in the finger ends
unwilling to leap
to the keyboard, or screen
not even the pen scratching
against wrinkled paper
still drying
while I stare?
~

I am lost
in the lush overgrowth
of my body

where water meets skin
to run in tiny streams down my face
over wrinkles and lines

searching the centre
breathe in
breathe out

my inner world
does not match
the curves

I wander the paths of
my soul’s estate
wondering

how when the mirror
will bend
and I will walk through

found
~

worn to bare wood
the box lid fell open
from my fingers
old letters, ripped envelopes
broken jewelry
faded photographs
tokens
from a past
I refuse
to let go of
history inked on lines
one side conversations
with the soul
I didn’t ask enough questions
didn’t think to wonder
didn’t let fear have a foot hold
until it was too late
a ring falls out
when the box tipped
hidden under the shower
of paper and other nonsense
still fits as if it were meant
for this finger
but it was never mine to wear
was it.

I never left
the strip of sunshine
that fell through the window
along the carpeted floor

not when the glass shattered
all around me
exploding the moment

not when the cup spilled
into deep cracks
unreachable by cloth
to be removed

not when silence
killed the music
and breathing was
not an option

I never left
not when
when the blood that fell
was my own
and
all that was left
was the brittle shell
of who I used to be

the sunshine warmed me
and I forgot

~

the day has me by the throat
and pressed to the door
a push to stare through tempered glass
at the week ahead.
calendar marked black
every day
every night
and the last day will have to be
for rest only
or laundry
because no other day will fit.
unless I choose to walk naked
in the days to follow
air pulls out from my lungs
heavy sigh
failure to breathe
I cannnot juggle
and this is why.
~