take the time to watch it grow.

May 28

Untitled #2

Sitting silently in the darkness
I know you’re there
Two hundred miles south of me
Doing the same exact thing

Maybe I felt this way all along
But was so busy
With trying to get the bleeding to stop
That I didn’t get a good look at the cut

Tears fall in and sting
Like a blister in the ocean
This is only getting worse

And I know this
But somehow you don’t
And I’m not sure you ever will

That city won’t wipe your tears when they fall down

May 26

do you remember that day. [february 2012]

Do you remember that day

When we drove up the coast of Maine?

First we stopped at the candy store

The one that’s way bigger than necessary

And I watched you marvel

At all of the clear plastic bags on the shelves

Each filled with a different kind of colorful treat

But I knew which section you’d go for

The chocolate

Blackberry rum balls

I should have known

It was fun for me to see you

In a place so familiar to me

In a place where I’ve spent my whole life visiting

First as a child

As a teen

As an adult

But I’ve always gone for Sugar Babies

And candy raspberries

Next we stopped at the little hot dog stand

The one that most people just drive right past

Without even a second glance

But it’s nationally renowned

That little shack on the side of the highway

My dad has to duck as he stands inside

Three specials and one Chicago style please

Two bags of Lays

A can of Moxie and a can of Coke

Let’s sit over here

In the grass

So that we can take our shoes off

And feel the earth with our toes

I’ve come here for years

First as a child

As a teen

As an adult

And I’ve always gone for two special dogs

And a can of Moxie with a straw

Up the coast further

Until we reached Ogunquit

The place where I got my purple t-shirt

Buttons on the top

Ratty and old

We walked down toward the water

Stood in the sand

And looked out at the world

We stayed still

As the water buried our toes in sand

But you weren’t doing it right

You’re not a New England kid

We joked and laughed

I saw other people smiling at us

They could see what we have

Then we walked barefoot

As the sand slowly left our drying feet

Down the entire Marginal way

Along cliffs that line the shore

To Perkin’s Cove

Where there’s a penny candy shop

A Breaking New Grounds

A toy store

Why didn’t we get ice cream?

I’d taken this walk

And visited these places for years

First as a child

And as a teen

And as an adult

And I always got a bag of salt-water taffy

And a scoop of peppermint stick

When we got back to Portsmouth

We made dinner together

With the ingredients that we’d bought

At Carl’s, Terra-Cotta, and Golden Harvest

I’ve gone grocery shopping there a million times

But it was different with you

It was better

It wasn’t the best dinner I’d ever tasted

That wasn’t the point

But I think its warmth lasted longer

Than the warmth of any meal I’ve ever had

It’s still warming me

And as we went to bed that night

I felt the weight of your head on my chest

And everything felt right with the world

The world has never felt more right to me

Than it did in that moment

As I lay with you in the darkness

And we recall our day together

It wasn’t fancy

We didn’t do anything special

Just some candy

A couple of hot dogs

A walk

Some pasta

But I think that might be my favorite day ever

In all the days that I’ve had yet

It was so beautiful

So perfect

Not because of what we did

But because of how we did it

In love

Whole heartedly

Without a care in the world

That’s how I know you’re the one

Because we can have days

Where we don’t really do much at all

But they’re the most fantastic days

For the same exact reason

When I wake up every morning

And see the sunlight

Shining on your sleeping face

I always smile to myself

Before I kiss you awake

And I remember that week

That day

The night when we laid on the beach

And looked at the stars

And you cried

Hard

And I didn’t think I knew why

But now I do

Now I understand

And I love you even more for it

after watching gandhi for the millionth time. [november 2011]

Each shotgun shell on the ground in front of them was another life taken. Tally marks in the dirt.
Brown heads, hands, feet, faces all falling down, down, down. 1,615 casualties with 1,650 bullets. How could you bring yourself to aim? How could you bring yourself to fire? It was nearly impossible to miss, so why did you?
Each still face shows a life just as important to its owner as yours is to you. Each hand has been held; each pair of lips kissed - whether by mothers or lovers, by sisters or brothers, or just perhaps by no one. But would they have been kissed? Maybe tomorrow, or next week, or next year? Those lips will never know, because they’ll never move again. They’ve lost their color, their luster, their owner. And who wants to kiss such lips?
The sound of children and women shrieking didn’t drown out the pounding of shots being fired; it didn’t even come close. You bastards couldn’t even hear the cries, couldn’t hear the death rattles that were the effect of your cause.
If they were silent guns, would you still have done it? Would you have thought twice if all that could be heard was the beating of your own cold heart?

i’m not an art collector. [october 2011]

It’s funny how everything about her is just like a work of art.

Sculpted so perfectly out of cream, honey, and lavender that Michelangelo couldn’t quite have gotten it right.

She has eyelashes that Tolstoy could never fully explain in too many words;

so much more intricate than the dark curls on the back of Anna Karenina’s neck,

but deserving the same sort of seemingly unnecessary attention.

Sometimes she feels like an original Warhol;

stunning combinations of reality and the resultants of popped paint bubbles

that have been coated in pop rocks, all seen through a homemade kaleidoscope.

Something familiar presented in a medium that’s so bizarre that it hasn’t even been thought of yet;

a macaroni sculpture that trumps Rodin’s “Thinker” and “The Pieta,” all in elbows and angel hair.

Some days it’s less of a Warhol and more of a Peter Max;

a neon rainbow Coke bottle.

“Open slowly and let the colors rush out onto your naked belly and into your soul through your mouth.”

In the winter when the sun goes down, she seems more like a Dali,

melting right along with time, and discovering that her own reflection is somehow drastically different from the real thing,

though the differences in physical appearance are completely nonexistent.

She’s something in a major key with an underlying minor tone.

Perhaps a mode.

Phrygian? No. Lydian? No. Mixolydian? No.

It’s something Lennon and McCartney never quite came up with;

something impossible to express through melody alone, paired with lyrics that Dylan has never been good enough to write.

Rodgers and Hammerstein couldn’t even come close.

Believe me, I’ve tried and can’t even find one single word.

And with all of these qualities so rare, she’s somehow still not untouchable.

As I stand, night after night, in this large dark room,

ogling at her under the sole spotlight that shines from somewhere deep within some strange and unknown place inside of myself,

I can’t help but admire that she’s not on a pedestal, but rather sitting cross-legged on the dirty wooden floor.

At first when I came here to look at her, I’d just stand and stare,

unable to take my eyes off of her for even the amount of time that it takes to blink.

It could have been hours, it could have been days,

it could have been forever before I even realized that I could go closer;

that I could walk, slowly, step by step, toward her.

But I was convinced that something would stop me.

Eventually, something would block my path.

A museum guard, wielding a short “Don’t touch the artwork please. Stay a few steps back,”

an invisible laser, something from a museum heist movie, that would set off an alarm

and promptly send a surprise arrow through my heart.

But each time I saw her, I took one step closer.

And each time I took one step closer, I took a deep breath in anticipation of whatever it was that would undoubtedly come into my way.

But nothing ever happened, I got closer and closer.

Closer and closer.

Finally, close enough to reach out my hand and brush my fingertips along her shoulder.

She always remained still, looking content,

her eyes focused on my hands.

I must have stood there for weeks,

my fingers only millimeters from her bare skin.

All I had to do was lose my balance,

falter, and the touch would happen.

Just the thought of it made my entire being tremble.

I was terrified.

I stood there feeling like what happens in that single instant

when you jump off of the dock and you’re hanging just above the water,

anticipating the plunge and knowing that there’s no way you can ever go back.

Then, finally, out of nowhere,

before I had made a decision of whether to actually jump or not,

she caught me by surprise.

As I stood there, my fingers trembling to the point where I assumed that she could feel them through the air,

even though they were not actually touching her,

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

And just as I exhaled, I jumped at the shock of feeling another warm hand wrap around my own.

As my eyes flew open and found their mirror image in hers,

I realized that I had not jumped at the water,

but rather that the water had jumped at me.

I was suddenly submerged and there was no going back now.

It felt as if thousands of small bubbles were floating up around my naked body,

tickling the surfaces of myself that I’d never even realized existed.

The warmth from her hand sunk into mine

and started running through my veins.

I felt my own warmth escaping and

through some strange version of osmosis,

flooding her own bloodstream.

Then at the same moment,

the weight in my chest changed,

and I saw the same change occur in her.

We had reached each other’s hearts at the same moment.

And I don’t know how it ends,

and I won’t know until it doesn’t matter anymore.

All that matters is that I’m not an art collector,

yet I possess the most precious masterpiece that has ever existed.

untitled #1 [october 2011]

broken bones and bruised bad backs

a burn, a blister from a fiery match

perhaps a bandage

maybe a cast

can heal the kinks and cuts and cracks

heart map. [march 2011]

take your favorite crayon
hold it in your hand
feel the wax and the paper
the rough and the smooth

close your eyes
and press it down
onto the blank page before you

draw
shape the contours of your heart
with your thumb and forefinger
make the hills
the valleys
the caves
the oceans
the deserts

the crevasses
where your deepest secrets lie

sketch what’s in your heart
where it’s broken
where it’s been stitched back together
where it can never be repaired

no wait 
keep your eyes closed

let your other senses heighten
hear the pieces of wax
scratching off onto the page
feel the cool breath
escaping your nose
and tickling the back of your hand
feel your chest ache
taste the smell
of the new crayons
escaping the box

a 96 pack
built in sharpener

keep drawing your heart
its strings
its beats
its feelings

and when you’re finished
open your eyes
put the crayon away
and look

i don’t need to see it
it’s not for me

fold the paper
put it in a safe place

i’ll try to find the map of your heart
but i musn’t

it’s not for me

in your mouth. [may 2011]

I want to stick my fingers in your mouth
And open it up wide
I want to step in
I want to curl up inside

I want to feel your tongue form words

That you only utter when you’re alone
Because you never want anyone to know
Exactly what goes on in your mind

I want to feel your slightly imperfect, yet still beautiful teeth
Crunch into pieces of toast
Tear into chocolate bars
Grind together while you sleep at night

I want to feel the smoke with my body
While it’s on its way to your lungs
As it’s on it’s way back up
And out of your soft figure

I want to feel your lips with my hands
When you lick them because they’re chapped
While you sit on a park bench and blow bubbles
As you fit them around the edge of a rum and coke

All I want is to sit there
Quietly and in peace
It’ll be easy
I don’t take up much space

All I want is to feel something
That it isn’t possible to feel
Because maybe if I felt something
I’d know for sure that you were real

post office. [february 2011]

When I was younger, I used to write a letter to Santa Claus at the beginning of every December. They were never about what I wanted or to try to persuade him that I had been a good girl that year, but rather just to wish him safe travels and thank him for all that he does. It takes a lot of work to make it around the world in 24 hours, delivering presents to every child on the face of the earth, and having to rely on those unpredictable reindeer for transportation. I don’t remember if I was just trying to be nice to Santa because I almost felt bad for him, or if it was because I inadvertently wanted to convince him that I cared about him and hoped that he would give me what I wanted for Christmas. Looking back, I think it was probably a combination of both.

I would write him letters and put them in an envelope that my mother had given me. After I’d sealed it, she’d help me to address it, putting my name and our ever-changing address neatly in the top left hand corner, and Santa’s North Pole address in the center. I only ever remember writing “Santa Claus, The North Pole” though, and never questioned why he didn’t have a town, state, country, or zip code. I guess there were so many letters being sent to him that he didn’t need those things. He was the big guy, the head honcho of Christmas; he was too cool for a proper address!

I’d stick a stamp in the right hand corner of the envelope and my mother and I would make the cold Saturday morning drive to the post office, where I would cradle that envelope in my hands one last time (even kissing it goodbye and good luck, I’m sure) before putting it into the mail slot and letting my heart explode with glee. I’d sit in the back seat of our old Toyota on the way home and imagine the postman putting my letter to Santa in a big box with all of the hundreds of other Santa letters. In my mind, the box had red and white stripes with a big label on the side that just said “SANTA LETTERS, NORTH POLE.” It would obviously be sealed with green tape.

And by the time we got home from our little post office adventure, I’d already be imagining the striped box arriving at the letter room within Santa’s factory at the North Pole.

“This one’s a big one, sir,” an elf would say as he carried in the box and put it next to a hundred others that looked just like it, “it’s from Derry, New Hampshire.”

And Santa would nod, and sit at his desk in the middle of the letter room, (this was where he would spend most of his days before Christmas while the elves finished making the toys) reading letter after letter and smiling to himself when he finally got to mine and realized that one kid did actually care about the troubles that he had to go through each year to make Christmas happen. He would love my letter best of all, I was always sure of it.

But there came a time, as there does in every child’s life, when I found out the truth about Santa Claus. And for about ten years since then, I’ve always wondered where my letters to Santa actually went. First of all, did other mothers let their children legitimately send letters to “Santa Claus, The North Pole,” or was my mom just really good at keeping my imagination strong? Does each post office have a plain old brown box labeled “SANTA LETTERS” with plain old clear tape that they just throw them all into, never to be seen again? Do they send them back to the return addresses so that parents can have them?

I really want to know the answer to this question. And I really want to get hold of those letters. I want to read them, savor them, respond to them and help keep the magic of Christmas alive for the children who go the extra mile and send Santa letters. If there is a job position that is something like “Official USPS Santa Letter Answerer” I want that job. I never heard back from Santa when I used to send letters, but I just assumed that he was too busy. I would give up my Christmas season to respond to letters from children in beautiful cursive script, keeping their Christmas spirit alive for one more year.

I want to start a Santa letter army, a group of people who answers these letters. It would be a million “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus” moments all at once. Instead of gifts next year, I’m going to give each of my friends, family members, and acquaintances a random letter from a child who wrote to Santa and mailed it at the post office. They will be required to creatively respond to the letter and mail it back to the child. Because magic is the best gift anyone could ever give, especially in a world that is quickly becoming devoid of all such things.

my heart is in my notebook. [february 2011]

i went out into the streets last night. out into the simultaneously cool and warm summer darkness, with a knife in my right hand and my notebook in the other. it was late and early at the same time; only a few cars were on the streets as the last few drunkards made their way home down the sidewalks. each time i passed someone, i whispered to them, “this is the one that i love.” and as i did this, i opened my notebook and showed them my writings as of late. some of them cared, but most of them didn’t. this was exactly what i had been afraid of. the weight of the knife in my hand felt good; i wanted to show the world my heart. i looked at the blade in the dim light of the church steeple as i placed my notebook in my back pocket. i braced myself for vulnerability. and as i slowly plunged the knife into my chest and the warm blood dripped down, some getting caught in my belly button, i was very careful not to damage the pulsing organ underneath my rib cage. after minutes of figuring, and cracking ribs, and sawing through breastbone, my hand finally rested on my heart. it was warm, slimy, fleshy; like a piece of meat that’s been marinating in the sun. as it beat, my fingers moved in and out, in and out, as they clutched its outside tightly. i felt no pain, this had needed to be done for a long time now. i gripped hard and pulled it out slowly, carefully. the blood ran down my hands, past my elbows, and onto the ground, where it pooled in front of my feet. when i finally felt the last heartstring break, and was holding my own heart in the dim central square light of my upper class new hampshire town, i slid my notebook out of my back pocket, staining it with bloody fingerprints, and i opened it to the next blank page. i spread it out on the ground in front of me, and placed my heart onto its blank, open pages, suddenly realizing how weary i had become. as the world started to spin and become a black and white movie, i laid down next to my creation and thought to myself, “i’ve done it, everything will be okay.”

soul tea. [january 2011]

the line where you end and i begin is blurring. are these your memories or mine? is that your left index finger tickling my palm, or is it my own? i’ve never let anyone this far in before. maybe i’ve tried, but they haven’t delved into me like you have. you’re hungry for my soul, and i’m feeding it to you with my hands, so as not to contaminate it with my dirty eating utensils. and after every sitting, when you’ve had your share and are licking the last secrets from my fingertips, all i can do is cry. i don’t know whether i’m crying from the burden being lifted or from fear that my inner belongings will somehow escape from your mouth, drip from your chin, and fall back onto me. keep your lips shut tightly, swallow hard. i would kiss you, but i’m afraid that i’ll pick up my secrets on your tongue and swallow them, leaving them lonely and once again untold. was that your laugh or mine? are you gasping for my breath again? you’ve never felt this either, but somehow you manage to keep more refined than i do. you keep your secrets in a beautiful teapot, pouring them into little teacups that steam with shame and confusion. i sip carefully but quickly, drinking three cups to your one as we sit and stare at each other with bloodshot eyes over your kitchen table and the Times crossword. i want more of your soul tea inside of me than you do, if only to lift your burden of late night shakes and tears.

“6 across: bubbles.”
“okay. another word for ‘longing’ four letters.”
“i have no idea.”
“me either.”
“let’s go to bed, the sun’s about to come up.”
“good morning.”
“good night.”