Thrift Shop

A jewel on a golden crown
Thrifted for a dollar and fit for a queen
A hall of mirror and prisms and frames
Singing forest animals plush with small names
You’ve never been in a shop with her
But you’ve seen her there so clearly
She pieces clothes together with accents of sun
Yellows and greens and light blues and pinks
Her smile is solar and she’s warm to the touch
You’d never guess she was the moon on a daybreak

She’s Snow White with a sexier voice
Plus freckles and much better style
She wades in good spirits and touches things with care
She’s a mother of ideas for her child

When she laughs there’s a tickle that plants in your heart
And it becomes hard to write things that haven’t been said
There are billions of songs on smiles and laughs
And love unfettered and undead
So you take a trip to a shelf of gold
And flowers and earrings and old patterned dresses
And pick out a loved something that has a story
Let her hold a story older than you
So you can begin more than a life’s journey of finding her all the love in the world.

Non-stop

I was once a firm believer in never putting a person on your skin
Never making promises or testing the balance of things
Never jinxing for the lack of a better term.

Now I realize the power uncertainty holds and the great way I burst out of its arms into yours.

I grew up feeling stoppable or slowable
Despite being perceived as non-stop,
People’s affirmations never lasted in their weight.

Now I see that everything standing between me or you or them will break. I will break it. I am the strongest person on earth. I can’t lift my body weight but I’d lift a mountain of hurt off your shoulders. I’d drag a night of pain out of their nurseries.

I’d run until my body breaks and I’d urge my spirit to crawl. If gravity squashes me when you fall from great heights, I’ll be the thing between you and the ground, and you’ll get up unscathed.

Non-stop makes sense now.

I will non-stop love you
Which means stopping in some ways, like:

Stopping to ask if you can breathe
Pulling over for your iced coffee
Clearing paths for you
Clearing calendars for your self-care
Stopping spirals and steamrolls
Stopping kids from waking you up
Stopping to buy a glimmer of gold you’d like
Stopping to get lost in your old eyes
Stopping to ask you if you like me when I’m 80
Breaking to call and check-in
Putting a wedge under the door closing us into a cycle of work
And vacationing to the picture on your desktop

I used to hate how I didn’t mind losing
I felt lethargic and slow and worthless
But my stamina for you is Olympic.
I’d tattoo five rings on my shoulder
I’d tattoo a moon
Because I outran and broke uncertainty
It’s panting a mile behind
Nothing about us can be cursed or touched
It’s a law now that you are mine.

Non-stop love for you making me stop for you anytime.

Stopping to clean before you get home
Pulling you close to relax on my chest
Clearing your mind and body of tangles
Clearing the floor of piles of clothes
Stopping all obligations because there’s only you
Stopping the nurse to ask when we get to see our baby boy
Stopping when you’re lost and those eyes are tired
Stopping to tell you I’m falling in love with you when we’re 80
Breaking down walls standing in your way
Putting an email invite together for a surprise for you
And staycationing to watch cartoons

I love how I can’t lose with you
I feel energized and happy and full
The course I run with you is infinite.
I’d tattoo letters for little names
I’d tack on a sun
Because I can barely remember a time when I wasn’t certain
That we are golden
And that forever is a comforter.

Non-stop love for you making me stop for you all the time.

 

 

 

 

Old Poem I Found

I was supposed to write a poem
Something about your hand
I told myself I’d remember in the morning
It slipped away like most words
My cheeks were warm and I smiled against my natural current
Fishing line at the corner of my lips hiked up
A happy marionette
To be married to your pink sweatshirt

I wish I knew what to write in a poem
I wish I could crack open fruits and fill them with gems the way people on microphones do
I wish I could talk about more than love and sadness and describe them as sounds crashing against the floor
Rolling against tile
An onomatopoeia
I’ll see you when I see ya
I wish I could make someone’s skin feel the same temperature as under my ribs
I wish I could write outside of the rear view mirror
I wish I could tell a story from the windshield, from the perspective of a wiper
And when the fingertips pull the switch towards their owner
Nothing would happen because it’s fresh out of tears

Sometimes when our tongues wrestle with our brains and our hearts want to talk to the manager,
Getting more and more frustrated with slow service
The warmth of our bodies saves us
And touch is enough to remind us it is worth it

And sometimes I’m just tall enough that my chin rests on your hair
While my nose swims through our histories and makes it harder
To decide whether to let you know I am crying
Or to send you off on a train and finally walk a slow pace
When you are not there to witness

You tease me that I am always one step ahead of you
And suddenly I can’t even move
I slip back into a week like I’m made for its cellular grooves
And wait for you to pop a fingernail under me
And pry me out of my secret sulk
Because I bite mine until you give me something else to do
With my hands, those gorgeous bastards

I wish you could come up to me faster.

Curley

Curly curly curly
Yours truly
Fruit in store
Time ignored
She squeezes into the lyrics of every song
So I listen closer three times over
Even though I know them all

She fills the holes I dig
Sets a red table in my mind
I am impatient
Utterly bare
And I slow down each goodbye

Writing Workshop- Using Colors on a Paint Chip (purples, timed 5 minutes)

Newport breeze.

We were peering over stone walls with Gatsby to our backs. The waves collided with granite, or I think it was granite, I wasn’t paying attention because my eyes only alternated between you and the cave below, with shadows of purple, ranging from Naples Sunset to Rock Harbor Violet.

The hydrangeas tickled our arms as we leaned further, joking about hitting the water. Or I think they were hydrangeas, I don’t know my flowers and my arms were alternating between the coldness of the shaded stone and the heat of your skin brushing mine.

It was an ocean but I treated it as God’s wishing well, and I wished we would come here again, only there would be spring lilacs because it would be March. Or I think they would be, I don’t know, my mind is alternating between this idea, and the fantasy of being yours forever.