divide

If I lit a candle
on this sleepless night
would you wake?
There’s so much
I could tell you
if the words hadn’t been
stolen
The wind on the sill
whispered the steps
to a movement
that only you know
That only You’ve ever
known
Such that this glow
in the dark
might lead me to trip
Can’t this body
sprout wings
so that one day
I’d catch up
And before you
I would bow
and ask, finally,
“Would’st thou dance with me?”

Advertisements

how It is

Dearest Father,

I’m pretty sure you cheated.

Your heart stopped beating at two in the morning.  But that was the exact moment when everyone gained an hour.  You literally stole sixty minutes from life while on your deathbed.

I can laugh about it now.  But at 2/3:02 in the morning that day, I didn’t know what was happening.

I was wearing a dress shirt that belonged to you.  The vertical stripes were salmon-colored, but you thought it looked too much like pink.  Did you know that I still have the pajama pants I wore that night?  They’re faded and torn and the word “Knockout” is no longer legible on the butt, but I can’t seem to bring myself to get rid of them.

I ate pizza that night and watched “Friends,” though for the life of me, I couldn’t tell you which episode it was.  There’s a general consensus stating that it takes approximately 40 muscles to smile.  I’m sure my body laughed, but my heart didn’t.

Someone recently asked me this question: “What is your biggest mistake in life?”

I blinked, licked my lips, swallowed, and looked down at the table.  My reply was quiet, but definite: “Not telling my father I loved him the night he died.”  Pause.  Another swallow.  Sandpaper maybe.  “That was my greatest failure as a daughter.”

You would’ve been sixty-nine years old today.  And here I sit, in a stuffy apartment, miles away from a house full of memories with you, and I’m not sure if I feel comforted or just lonely.

I still think about you, you know.  Every day.  That might sound cliche, but I swear to you, it’s true.  Sometimes it’s silly things like giving a tailgating motorist a hard time the way you always did.  But it’s also bigger things, profound and so staggering that I don’t understand how I can remain standing when all I want to do is fall to my knees and weep with missing you.

I used to write you letters everyday.  They never made it to you; you were six feet too far.  At some point I stopped writing them because mother once told me that if I talked to you in my mind, you’d hear me.  Figured I wouldn’t waste the paper.

Still.  There’s something to be said for the empirical.  I know these keys won’t bring you back.  I know this box full of characters won’t bring you back.  I know remembering you today or any other day won’t bring you back.  Nothing I will do for the rest of my life will ever change the fact that you died.

But on the off-chance that you browse the world wide web when you’re not busy playing golf with St. Peter and all your siblings, know that I’m sorry.  I should’ve told you that I loved you.  It’s not enough that you knew on some omniscient level.  You fucking deserved to hear it.

I love you.  And I miss you.  And happy birthday.

I Remain,
your daughter

 golf-course-37a

thinking

Passivity
Useful
Or cowardly
Depends on the day
(and the years of refuse
circling the drain)
Is it bravery?
To take it in silence?
Or is it just
stupid?
It hurts like hell
the verbage, the blows
the sickening crunch of realization
that I am NOT rubber
nor are you glue
We are both flesh
as much as I hate to
have something in common
So it’s just pain
at the end of the day
I understand now why you do it
Because you’re addicted
to addiction
to distraction
from the truth
You. are. not. a. worthwhile. person.
How’s that for passive.

wait your turn

you’ll need a ticket
there’s quite a line
each one’s got a different complaint
“cold” “monster” “how could you”
“liar” “not good enough” “who are you”
so much saliva goes into
spitting insults
doesn’t your mouth
ever get dry?
no, I bet you always have
a pocketful of lozenges
all labeled with
different complaints
i wonder if you’ll realize
that gavel is no more
than a hacking ax
and you’re no glorified queen
no tamer of dragons
but a mother, oh yes
with dried up teats and
grudges to keep you
company

I Believe

I remember the marble
the pressed stone
the waxy glow
circles and circles
above me

I was a child here
I was a lover here
without a family
without a tower

Worn wood beneath
trembling thighs
as I searched
blurry-eyed and broken
across the pews
for the one to whom
all my letters
had been addressed

Nameless. Viceless. Flawless.
Dark. Murderous. Perfectly Ruined.
My mistake. My lonely, twisted King.

You were never in that
goddamned church
You were across the water
a bridge away
hating yourself
for falling in love
with a fairy tale

How was it, then,
that I came to hold you?
Arms tight
a shield against the danger
The scent of heartache
heavy in the trembling air
as vibrato and memory
stretched together
to form this
penitent pair
on the floor
of the cathedral