Sunday, August 21, 2016

Bullet Point

Bullet Point 


Bullet point pen, I
love the sensation of your
words, your scratch and stroke.





Rocking Chair

Rocking Chair 

We used to make forts in our room out of anything we could find. Pushed our beds closer together, draped a sheet across their frames, a rocking chair serving as an unstable wall. From the fort we would run strings, connecting the corners of the room so our toys never had to touch the ground. The tiny world in the sky at our eye level, rocking with the chair, adding a bit of danger with a comforting object. I always wondered why rocking chairs were so nice, why we enjoyed the sensation of rocking when in reality rocking is just falling. I watched our tiny world rock, fall, and then catch and then fall again, and my 6 year old self wondered why we find comfort in falling.







Cowboy

Cowboy


Cowboy, I’ve always loved you.
From your image on my childhood bed sheets,
playing your guitar for the Indian woman and her baby,
I saw your sensitive side.
When we went out west on a month long family trip,
I saw you everywhere.
In the shuffle of old leather boots and the warmth of denim.
I bought a cowboy hat so I could be closer to you.
And now I’m grown, and you’re still here,
or there in my imagination.
You ride up to my office door,
lasso a man on a Segway and you call to me.
After all these years, you’ve not changed one bit.
I reach for your stubbled face and try to wipe the prairie dirt off your cheek,
but only leave a smear.
Your green eyes lock onto me and you are suddenly much more real than my bed sheets.
Pulling me close my skin collides with your long sleeves,
your too-warm-for-this-August-heat outfit,
and you remind me why it’s important to daydream.
I rip a slit in my pencil skirt and you hoist me onto your horse and we’re off.
I wonder when you’ll play your guitar for me,

and when I’ll ever be back again.




Molasses

Molasses 

My mom cooks with molasses
as a substitute for something.
I can't remember what, but I
know it's probably because of
my brother, somehow. Family
sticky sweetness, for unknown
reasons.



Paris

Paris 


Museums vs walking
History vs coffee
Architecture vs street art







Ghost

Ghost 

Ghosts were not just people; a name- 
places can haunt you just the same. 




Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Expiration

Expiration

I will think of you.
Till it's beating stops, my heart
will not expire.