Stammer

His warmth

is a lit match

grazing close.

I recoil

like the tiny wisps
on the tip of a cotton wick —

afraid to be ignited and

keeling over

from the memory 

of splendor —

trying so hard to fight it.

Heaps

I’m floating on saltwater

my hands the weakest oars

splintered with stinging words

sickened by the steady tumble

light swish and heavy drop

my stomach clenched tight

I look up high but

clouds loom each night

and shroud the North Star.

"Don’t stop now!"

they tell me.

"You've come so far."

Inhibition

The boughs

of the phylogenetic tree

show clearly

that we’ve evolved away

from our shells

being bound to our spines —

hiding our faces

and tucking in our limbs

won’t save us

from the calamity

that life decides to hurl

in our direction.

I guess that must be why

this feels unnatural.

In the back of my throat

I form words that

pool like mercury:

strong and sterling,

but suddenly disjointed

and toxic

at each hesitation.

They want

(more than anything)

to soar in their elocution

tossing the deadweight

of insecurity

off their backs

as they unfurl

their exuberant wings.

But it’s so hard to fly.

No one can just sprout wings

spontaneously.

Even the caterpillar —

a recluse inside its chrysalis —

has to dissolve its own body entirely, —

only barley dodging death —

leaving itself a puddle of potential

before it can rebuild itself from scratch

and flutter off

to the bright blue skies.

Misfit

I am usually
a prim and proper
noun, standing tall
in every sentence –
no tittles or cross strokes
reaching the height of
my definition –

but some days are different:

the paragraphs are tight
they don’t leave room
for any subject
I cite,
not even in the space
of indentations

so I linger
without transition

between margins
and sometimes
I feel

my letters
disassemble,

their eyes
zone out
or maybe
well up with tears

finials
taper even more
becoming invisible

legs and arms start to
wilt
leaving blotches of ink
on the text intact

I feel the irrelevance
of me

I definitely feel
the irrelevance
of me

juxtaposed

with the contents of a rule book
that I never really understood.

Just expunge me, please.
Paint over me thickly
with the most concealing
whiteout.

Neverendings

I never miss you
because we hold hands
in everseconds -
no ticks
no tocks -
just endless time,
together.

No alarm! Just
the darling we
of you
and me
(awakened
perpetually) -
as the we
of you
and me
cannot ever be

a memory.

Painful Recovery

If you love me

stab me

with the truth.

This will hurt less
than bandaging me

with lies

numbing me
softly

and then forcing me
to peel them all off

a day too much later.

Changing Scenery

I haven’t sat here

since the day you told me
you didn’t feel the same

but something about it
has changed.

The table is still metal black
the seats are still oddly cold
but the sunlight has made it new somehow –
everything is plated in gold.

I would be forced to pass this place before
and get a strange knot in my throat
but right now I’m leaning, scribbling, humming a song
and my smile is staying afloat.

The tree in front of me
is poised just like I am
its leaves are relaxed and ruffling

and the mourning dove is not mourning
the rush of cars isn’t rushing
there isn’t a single cloud overhead
and there are blades of luscious green
between bricks of stony red.

There is a smile in the stiffness
of the kingfisher’s narrow beak
there is cheer in the flutter
of the sparrow’s shower
there is love in the glide
of the starling’s wings
and in my writing hand

there is power.