gravefication

In my mind, heaven
is one narrow country road
and no streetlights.

I drive down it to meet the
fairly unconsecrated dead-
I don't enter the yard of their bodies,
but crack open the gate for their souls,
the tiny brown boys and girls

who sleep in a gentrified neighborhood
that won't be bothered to straighten
the tiny stick crosses that remember their names

(none of which the nearby residents
can bother to pronounce.)

I whisper hellogoodbye
(leaving them to
play in the impeccably maintained
schoolyard one lot over)
and slip away, because this is heaven,
and not my place.

excerpts on wanting

I can honestly, for the first time in three years, say I want completely to keep on being alive. 

 I want to force myself through yoga until my body craves it again.. I want to learn as many complex variations on language as possible. I want to go up to the woods and breathe in the clean air. I want to watch another baby be birthed, and another, and another. I want to kiss my love's face and stand in the ocean with her. I want to adore someone again without shaking with fear. I want to read Mary Oliver aloud to another person. I want to finally organize my closet. I want lashes fully grown in and eyelids that don’t burn from being yanked on. I want to become a mother. I want to enjoy the sensation of nourishing my body with mindfully eaten food. I want to trust in my body and my intuition again. I want to take responsibility.

***

I feel like I'm beginning to recognize god, more and more.

***

I'm learning to enjoy lonesomeness, to absorb the quiet and use it to speak with myself. I used to play love songs for other people, I used to find miracles in glances. I used to ache to be filled, and now I want to overflow, to be still, to give. I want to give, and give, and give, until it is easy. As Mary said, when we pray to love God perfectly,  surely we do not mean only.

halved

in these small hours of the night
I ache for the cage of your arms,
the vibrations of your chest
as you clear your throat,
the rough edges of your fingertips
planted along my spine.

instead, I curl deep into myself now,
my thoughts and breath
whispering back and forth to each other
as I trace my own bones
and try to remember.

when you are gone, my love,
I have nothing left of you
but the half of our body
that I inhabit.

hollywood, 5-5-14

we came here so she could learn
her words and how to speak them,
and so I could feel the air touch my skin.
she succeeds, I falter.
she stands with two friends, laughing,
kissing.
my hands tremble. I want to kiss someone. I want,
someone-
even the wind declines- it blusters around my face
and leaves me untouched.

my pen is useless in my hand
when I see him.
there, on the other side of the park,
a man stands under a tree,
kicking, kicking, kicking
a soccer ball up in the air,
alternating feet.

the breeze ceases its chill,
the insects in the grass
pause their scramble.
we watch,
the ants, the wind, the world and I,
we all come to a halt
transfixed to see how long
the ball can stay apart from
this magnetic soil.

for an instant there is no noise,
no fear,
no question of what is to come.
all that matters
is this man
and his ball,
ambivalent between earth and sky,
choosing air for now.

the good parts

* putting together big packages for friends in college

* the one-man performance of The Oddysey I went to last night at Southwest Shakespeare

* Tegan and Sara

* time with my boyfriend's mum/little sister/puppies, feeling helpful and productive 

* friends who lend you funny books to read when you are sick 

* hugs 

* another camping trip this weekend

* knowing my lovely boy is happy

* English breakfast tea

* madras lentils

* so many new babies

 * the love of a cat, specifically a bug-eyed, fluffy cat

* just a few weeks and autumn will be here and this summer will have passed

Loves

I love that when I lie in his bed there are plush animals for my feet to play with

I love that his cheeks have scars for my fingertips to stroke

I love that he begins to be sad with me

I love his dog

I love that from the beginning he called me by my name

I love his crooked goofy smile and the way it welcomes me

I love that he hurts in the same places I do

I love the privacy which he hides behind and I invade

I love his rainy, cocoa smell

I love the capital L he insists upon

I love the little boy I uncover more and more rarely

I love his passion for properly chopped vegetables

I love his yearning for superpowers

I love the warmth his very being exudes 

I love the kisses

I love that on these nights we cry together.  

August.

I began school last week. I am tired. Little amounts of sleep, waking up early , driving two and three round trips to the college each day, this heat, physical pain from attempting yoga twice a week... Added up, I come home every day worn out from being around people, from having to look put together and interact socially and pleasantly. I suppose this is the "real world" everyone thinks I've been sheltered from, and there are days I wonder if they're right. 

It's good, though. Two of my classes are less than thrilling, but I love, love, love my creative writing class- the assignments, the class discussions, my fantastic feminist professor and his suggestions, many of the people in my class, the diversity in age range especially. Yoga will be a good thing, I think. And I find myself appreciating little things so much. Just one kind word from another student or thoughtful comment about something I've said/written, or a conversation that makes me laugh early in the morning when I start wishing I wasn't awake. I am busy, but I feel okay. Really okay. 

I miss my boy. It's only been a week, but I want to drive up to the Volcanic Town Of Eternal Stoner Christmastime (Flagstaff, AZ) and fetch him back here to me. But this is necessary for the both of us and I confess it makes me glad to see him living in a place where he is glad. 

So until October, I am here, waiting and doing my hardest work to enjoy what is hopefully my last summer spent in this city.