He has a smile like handcuffs and my wrists are raw and arrested. Under cool water I pour bruises down the drain and smile at the sting of reconstruction. Hammer against backbone I am arched like a bridge over his table, one determined hand prevents me from breaking.There are blueprints over my legs. Adjustments to the pillars that keep me upright and tempting. Painted all the colors of exploration my center has been placed between chin and shoulder, marked by two crescent moons, the memory of teeth. Biting the banks of thigh the river ran shallow after the drain of clay but these waters will rise with the next rain. Moisture to polish the painting of my favor. Gesso down throat, swallowing portraits of what we could make together - landscapes, hips, novels. My canvas is stretched for possibility, waiting for mark, it inhales softly, the hum of finished songs. Lips like lyrics I sing from memory, pausing only when he dips his brush in, sighs and makes a line. The trace of past lovers I will never know cover the internal tattoos of lovers he's trying to best. She over me, me a reflection of her, another picture, another poem. We rub together like etchings, a 2 print run. Signatures mark completion like orgasms, panting at the end of masterpiece. We dusty seasons, sprung from marble, challenge time with its own watch. He has me bent and captive. I have his sketch all around me. Together we studio a scene made from found objects and clasped hands. An original showing, hung under heavy lights, promises this sort of talent only gets better with time… and practice.

April, 2008

I bought a compass so I would always know
where I was in relation to you.
Tired of North and South I left East and
went to become a cowboy.

A universe lays beneath the needle.
Magnets sewing the poles together
pull the maps fabric tight.
Do you consider the
state of my canteen?
To quench thirst I drank water
collected on leaves.
You leave and now I'm kissing branches,
sleeping with dogs, the feeling of fleas
is mutual.

My survival skills are weak.
Reluctant to walk the extra mile only to
discover paradise...
was a mirage.
I've learned to ride with blisters
and stings but every attempt at calculating
the distance between us
leaves me with sun
in my eyes.

Quiet days last longer.
I dream of rope and knots.
Starvation robbed me of my principles.
Bones show that we are just trying
to live.
Dust settles.
Hair full of tumbleweeds.

Without you fire is the hardest.
Scraping the flint reminds me of
making love.
Sharp edge up and down,
turn it over,
make a spark.
Attempting to nest an ember into kindling,
with cupped hands and pursed lips.
Chatting to a baby bird on the prairie.
I'm teaching fire to fly -
a blaze we nurture
just before it dies.

January, 2008

Kicking street side cans you are learning how to walk with me. Hands slipping in and out of hands, every step taking me faster into a spiral of smiles, and the sound flip-flops make when I'm running. Watching, from across the road, they wonder what makes us go round in circles when a straight line would do but they don't understand the quickest way to my heart is skipping. Sun is optional for I have knees which hide curiously behind Wellingtons. Splashing is my shower and the rain will have to do because I haven't had time to take a bath. Slick messy curls twist to the back of my neck with a pencil keeping the strands in check. I look different every single day. You know it's me by the quick lashes hiding my ever searching eyes. Complicated necklaces drape over breast bone and a scarf around my wrist reminds me my hands are tools. Silk guiding to fingers prevents stationary pauses on my belly at night. Instead I write a life lived on the rough edges of watercolors. Colors bleeding into portraits and landscapes, familiar as snow and orchards. There is no going home for me. That place left me when I was 16 and sleeping on a neighbors sofa. My momma loved everything except reality but I grew up to be a pretty lady any way. So here we are friend. Running down the streets and across the parking lot I am making you dance with me. Pulling your arm to its full extension I duck beneath your elbow and spin around. Face erupting into grin in that moment you love me more than anything else. That is my Sharpie mark in you life. This second will fade (and perhaps we will too) but we will always have that. Dancing in a parking lot and enjoying the pressure of plain adoration because I can make you laugh until the creases beside your eyes water your cheeks. This is perfect for a band of liars and storytellers who only make sense when the other is in a good mood. Darling we are a circus of bearded women and trapeze artists. Swinging above a trembling fall, falling would be a small sacrifice to keep this feeling suspended in the air between our lips.

Black cat makes sense of her. Tripping over two poorly placed feet she apologizes to furniture, making a way to bed. Unable to meet those peaceful green eyes, lecturing bad behavior with silence, she slams palms against light switches leaving him glowing in the living room corner. Under bathroom light she strips down to fur. Pulls out pins and jewels becoming feral and sad, full of musk. The black cat sniffs the jungle over her smeared body. Fallen into bed she clutches cold blankets in her mouth to stifle how lonely togetherness seems. He watches her head against the pillows, flicks and ear, and sighs. His tangled mother scars at night and she has every resource necessary to make it stop. But she is straight and still in awkward humanity. He moves like air conditioning across the bed, grooming rough scraps of skin until they lay flat and passive. Her small snores signal the dreams have not yet come and it is safe to lay in the basin of her back. Nestled against a complicated spine he purrs and prays for mother to sleep the night though, not grab at imaginary assailants or laugh the way drunk humans do. To him it sounds like choking and empty food bowls. Pressing his eyes closed he wishes for them to be together forever and for her to pet him in the morning, soft on his head and rough on his back. He will smile and tell her everything is going to be alright with the rub of his gums. She will open banshee eyes and remember the day they first met. Both scared and shy they claimed each other with one look. He has never told anyone how she cried the first time they touched. Her pain was electric and he wanted to trust but her whiskers were still in hiding. She wanted something broken she could love more than the tears of herself. The moon creeps up her thighs and he protects the night with kneading paws, molding a love perfect and forgiving. Numbers of the clock flip over the hours which mean nothing to the cat.

August, 2007

Ten small boxes
on the living room floor
hold all the shards
of last years adventures.
Six days without talking,
three months of death,
a week in the tub,
they had to dry my bones
before putting the skeleton
back together.
These lacquered containers
hold laughter like ashes
scattered along the East coast
until the lids blew shut
Bits of teeth temper the mass of:
walking against frozen lakes,
a kiss through mounds of snow
piled high in the courtyard
of a downtown church.
That day I lost my wallet and
you asked me to leave my lover.
Ten small boxes for every day
with ample room
for the really bad hours.
This baggage is mismatched
with out wheels it drags heavy in
train stations, across continents.
I've packed it so may times
I know the artifacts of every box:
lipstick on the bathroom mirror
spelling out the songs
we found ourselves too tired to sing,
five incisions on my left shoulder,
missing hair from when I tried to leave
but she wasn't ready to let me go,
a stab wound in my thigh,
drugs hidden in my childhood lunchbox,
too many vicaten and I felt like
I was on fire,
missing my window seat
where rain and snow became dances,
poems too sweet for the jail of paper.
The recent addition was the idea
that my decisions are unstable.
I kiss away every stereotype
and love the skin beneath the mask.
For a moment I think of
pulling these boxes open,
placing memory on display.
Artifacts from a dig that
left me nothing but dirty.
However, I'm attempting minimalism
and I'm happy with excess.
So I gather ten little boxes
into a garbage bag
and donate emotion to the needy.
Sealed reminders of a year
I've outgrown.

Lately I've been waking to things I don't understand: Brief Calculus, smoke in the bedroom, the fade on his left ring finger, an empty hollow I've wrapped myself around as I'm twined in foreplay. Nothing about this test makes sense. I've stopped filling in multiple choice bubbles in order to design a connect-the-dot of the way you look at me when I pretend I can't see you looking. Teach me math so I can divide past and future and comfortably arrive at a remainder without rounding up. I never learned to add because numbers looked like the tick marks my mother put beside undone chores on the refrigerator list to remind me of my failings. Now I'm counting everything because, as you say, these equations are definitive. Four mouths ago I lay on an abandoned bed in a sweatshirt so colorful you turned your face and laughed. Head on my feet, as not to be formal, I learned about turtles, time and prime numbers until you took me to brunch and your best-friend called to tell me your lessons were love and this class was a private tutorial for you wanted me to score high. At 24-years-old I learned to count. A few months later we turned fractions into wholes and those memories of three year long lovers seemed silly after the bonus question revealed infinity goes on forever.

Lost Boys

My boys are perfect.

Prime examples of what men are supposed to be but,

I don't call them men, I call them boys.

Lost in a land too fierce to see their tears and

too callous to pay attention when they need to be held.

Adults who shudders at thoughts of growing up,

playing today for games denied at youth.

They hold women like full bowls of water, ready to spill,

and would kill to be touched at night without

obligation of being dominant, to recharge their kindness.

Stubble shades shadows of tight lips who

can't escape a sigh because they're supposed to be strong,

not cry in movies, always able to open jars and

fix cars they are frustrated

in a world that turned them cold as kids.

Forcing masculine lies about coming out on top,

paying bills, and fathering children they don't want to scar.

So far no ones asked about their favorite stuffed animal.

or what type of flowers they like,

whether they can hear songs in the rain or jump rope.

Toy soldiers, positioned in stiff battles –

don't want to go to war

though they know there's beauty worth fighting for.

Our little boys have been aching for someone to

tickle their backs but they can't turn to one another for comfort.

To hold another man makes you gay

and, that's ok, except they…just want a hug.

Getting farther from their father's wood chopping ways

they wanted to draw families in chalk and play Barbie's.

My boys are perfect.

Everyday I watch them overcome macho stereotypes

 and have fun the way people are supposed to.

It's not a sin to be straight and male

but we put the good ones though hell

breaking the gentle balance of nature.

A harmonic equality treating me as queen

by respecting my independence,

the greatest compliment a women could be paid.

They hold my hand and let me pay for dinner,

it tastes better that way.

Starting in blue cradles to create a better world

we need to teach our children

it's ok to be afraid as a boy or a girl.

So hold your sons closely, call them tender names,

we'll reform society by starting a new gender refrain.

June, 2007

Today on the clock I bought basil for my boss. I also got a pound of walnuts, some chicken broth and $80 worth of socks. Tomorrow I cash checks into small denominations and arrange it neatly on the mantel. Fill a car with premium gas and the smell of Italian peppermints. Need a hint? I'm a personal assistant. The real "Devil Wears Prada" sort of gal except I don't sport nice shoes, I do what my boss tells me to and I do mean whatever. Plan a cruise I won't get to take. Reserve a birthday party by the lake, on the South shore, a spot where the mosquitoes don't get too bad. Five dozen fragile sugar cookies seasonally decorated and tied with velvet bows. Who knows what's next? Teaching Jane Eyre and selecting French silk underwear. I only wish this was a joke. Monday though Friday I'm a wage slave for another's desires. I perform the un-do-able and make it look nice. Drive to Atlanta at 4am? Bitch I've done it twice! Bought the finest cuts of meat I'll never eat because I'm a vegetarian. Swearing as I, hand apply, "Happy Birthday" stickers to two hundred tiny containers of goldfish. I wish Girl Scouts never invented cookies for money buys friends and friends get cookies delivered to their door…by me, all 52 of them and my air-conditioning was broken so I had to use locomotion to keep me from melting in my black mismatched suit. Shaking hands with CPAs, I've had better days, but I'm a personal assistant and that means coffee and organically-filtrated-mountain-spring water and pure breed dogs. Two shaggy bitches those smelly witches tear up my car seats and bark at every passer by. Riding with authority in my failing vehicle – Zero needs her nails trimmed and " Fly has arthritis so can you please not go over bumps?" Sure. It doesn't occur to you that natural selection might be saying it's Fido's time to go. No. So it's the holiday ribbon tied around their collars and fur all over my black coat. I'm a personal assistant so I cope with your stress as well as my own. Never alone for you call me after-hours to pick up lasagna. I warn ya I'm getting close to breaking. $30 mascara and hypo-allergenic lipstick. Who knew bee's wax could make you sick? Three hour trips to discover a 5 x 5ft painting won't fit in my trunk. A size problem you forgot to mention. It would have been good to know in advance… just a suggestion. But my trunk can fit twelve poinsettia plants and four bags of donated clothing. Brand new shoes, worn once, I save to give to friends. It amends for the fact I don't get paid enough for this. Stretch limo ordered for a 12-year-old and make sure the color matches her dress. Impressed that you think anything less than perfect is lazy. However, this crazy job keeps my brain in motion. No office chores, I'm out buying age-reversin' lotion. Different task every day allows my creativity some freedom and even though it's sort of lame… I really like picking up the dry-cleaning.

April, 2007

When you said your favorite superhero was Batman I knew I loved you. Not for sharing that character with me but for sharing your character with me. It was a slow melt that seemed a lot like affection but… I can't write that type of poetry.

The day by the river when we made jokes and shared a sandwich I almost wrapped my fingers around you like a napkin, almost touched the crumbs on your chin to wipe away the tangible memory of this day. Sun on the water, your lips leading to that smile – no… I don't write that type of poetry.

Late night phone. I should turn it off but sometimes, if I will it hard enough, you call. Muggy voice finds me complicated. An accomplice to your benefited friendship fantasy. Cell phone bills are high because I can't hang up my heart or stop frantically text-messaging my feelings for your humor but… I won't write that type of poetry.

Bubbles. Blowing our fears away in soapy rainbows while catching glances at a trace of the face we adore. Our inner children play together. Roll on grass and kiss behind trees with swings in the branches. Not clumsy adults making out, messing up but kids in the light and I like you better when you're silly and sober, when you find my funny and my shy, finish sentences I haven't spoken. Arms graze electric over puzzle pieces but… I can't write that type of poetry.

Pen strokes. You drift my palms over thirsty paper and suddenly a portrait, taken with outstretched arms, appears. No one was able to capture our faces in frame so we photographed our own adventures. Show your teeth to the sky, scattering birds and my intellect. I no longer compose competently. You are shaking the dictionary of my dignity and in my blush I can't create straight... feelings. I'm not too young but I know too little to feel so much. Move so I can see where we're going lifted under a carnival of balloons. My love dissolves in the atmosphere and my voice it going limp from helium. Jig-sawed nonsense we've lost all the corners and are stuck with middle images that look nothing like the cover. Innocent disappointment leads to a desire to protest but…

April, 2007