please stay

like oxygen to fire

sun to the earth

life to the heart

I will be consumed by your absence

stay

and make me your home

I am tired

Closing eyes and forgetting the world seems small comfort yet I take it as it is, an escape from broken branches and a rotting stump. Branches that once reached for lofty heights, supple lengths filled with life and growth. Now dry, cracked. Brittle. Strewn about waiting for savage fires embrace as kindling, as this is the measure of their worth now realised

The stump that once connected roots deep and far reaching to their sky loving counterparts slowly decaying in the wake of moss, termite and age. Failing as all grand things must in their time, a pathetic remnant of strength once envied.

I am tired

What impossible destruction visited to once proud flora, what insidious reduction of life to ruin. I have grown, flourished and fallen to the elements. No water may quench the thirst of my despair, no sun rays may invigorate that which hastens to dark disrepair. The forest mourns but all are static and reach in vain to a fallen willow

I am tired

Spread my shrinking substance across the hungry undergrowth, let all within my radius take sustenance from my meager offerings. This is my final gift, a far cry from hearth and home that offered sanctuary and shade but it is what I have left to imbue.

Sleep comes swift and the leaves are of sienna hue, there is naught I can do to resist the approaching Fall. Perhaps in time the acorn may take hold and what I once was might reclaim towering observance, but earthen nurseries are sparse. Creeper vines thick. The weather unforgiving.

And I am so very tired…

Seasons flash by in giddy haste

Minutes coalesce into years and the grave awaits

But patience is its bedfellow

For an end comes to all and certainty is laughing

What tears may fall for wasted fervor

What hands may wring for that which passed by

I died today as sure as I will some time hereafter

And it crumpled my strength as a paper crane under peak hour haste

Funny thing dying, the emptiness at its core holds peace

Yet it is a quiet fear, calming and cold

If this is true deaths substance

Let it come.

It can bear me no greater sorrow than

Life as it unfolds in my hands this day

Creaks and groans from tired, unwilling bones

Threatening mutiny under the weight of recent ill

They have had their fill

I have too

It would be shortsighted to blame you

I pass no condemnation to any

When shoulders can bear a load as they must

I have spit and I have cussed

Though, no venom for your ears

All crimson disappears and I find my heart swelling once more

For the one I adore, the one I will wade

Into Stygian depths for

If it is asked of me, you see.......

I love you eternally

brown eyes, thick

lips, buzzed chest,

perky butts, romantic

kissing, cuddling during

rainstorms, intelligent

conversations, smores

and firepits, mystery,

playing hard to get,

drive, compression shorts

on treadmills and lifting

weights, a good pair

of jeans, tight shirts

smiles, white teeth

dimples, jaw lines,

awkward hands, scars,

briefs, muscle thighs,

kisses on the neck,

stomachs for pillows,

reading, tattoos, motorcycle

jackets, suits, and bowties

I am ten years old.

It is spring.

The grass has begun its transformation

from brown to green.

I am getting out of school.

I walk six blocks home alone,

creating stories of moving away,

being asked to join a boy band,

my mother getting transferred,

my father getting a real job.

There is a box of clothes on our porch.

There is no note.

I know who left it.

I drag the box inside.

It’s the first warm day since snow,

mom won’t be home for an hour,

I want to be outside, in a tree,

living someone else’s life,

but I stay inside until mom gets home.

I follow the rules.

Jake is supposed to watch me,

Who knows where he is,

Micah drops off his book bag,

Heads to the park,

He does not invite me.

When mom gets home I tell her about the box,

Run to the park and climb my favorite tree

the one that defines the makeshift end zone.

I imagine it is my home.

I am no longer a boy,

But have mutated into a tree person.

I cook and clean our branches,

polish the leaves,

raise the seed’s,

until my tree husband comes home

and he makes love to me like a redwood,

sturdy and strong.

I hear moms whistle,

jump from the tree and race my brothers home.

The box of clothes sits in our sunroom all summer,

while I am driving from field to field

moving water so my father can grow money.

I swim every day,

My skin has turned a deep brown.

I am surprised at how white my thighs are.

Tornados break the monotony of farming.

My brothers wash the boat.

My mother packs the food.

We take the camper to the lake.

My dad skis.

I watch him fall

I build sandcastles, swim with the fish,

and run around in my life jacket.

I am happy here.

Before school starts

We make one final trip.

Mom hates school shopping.

We buy only what we need.

I am limited to one pair of shoes

that will be worn during P.E.

I will wear Jake’s P.E. shoes from last year.

Micah will wear mine.

Noah will wear Micah’s.

When we get home,

we sit down and go through

the boxes of clothing

that have accumulated in our house.

They have started to overwhelm mom.

The boxes are sorted between the four of us.

Pants we don’t have a choice;

if they fit, we wear them,

no matter the condition.

But I get to choose the shirts.

The rejects become rags on the farm.

I take the stack of clothes to my bedroom,

carefully place my new wardrobe in my dresser

like it’s a collection of hope diamonds.

I am fifteen years old.

I have held my own job for three months.

I am in Old Navy.

I purchase my first brand new t-shirt.

It is blue, I wear it til the thread

in the seams break and the sleeves fall off.

I stood beneath the sky,
reached above, and clapped my hands twice,
“okay, chop-chop…
your vacation is over,
time to come home now!”

so the sky opened its mouth,
but the only thing to ever come out
(to touch the Earth again)
was the blanket of snow,
the airplane in Moscow,
a small piece of shrapnel,
the skydiver in Nashville,
raindrops from the window-sill,
cigarette butts in the landfill,
a winter storm’s icicle
a grieving mother’s feet
for the first time
in twenty seven weeks.

you left too early
for your vacation

but maybe it was for
a homecoming.

I rode the train back home that day 
I reached home as a whole 
But I swear to you - 
I was ripped to pieces.

That if i stood still long enough 
I’m convinced a stranger would 
trace the cracks in my pores 
with their eyes.

I once heard that the Japanese 
aggrandize the damage 
of broken things
Simply by filling their cracks 
with gold

For, whatever withstands 
destruction 
and 
history, 
becomes 
more beautiful.

And if this is the case, 
then you were 
the 
most 
beautiful.

Perhaps too beautiful 
for too long, 
far too long,
and i’m sorry

I’m sorry.

1, 2 & 3

Some mornings I have

To remind myself something

Is always better

Than nothing at all

That thirty minutes on an

Elliptical is

Superior than not

Getting out of bed before

Ten in the morning

4a

Cute boys in bro tanks

Bouncing bubble butts running

Around in spandex

4b

Their pecs and nipples

Poking through their cutout shirts

Is why I get up

5 & 6

Five days a week means

Losing weight and flat stomachs

My clothes don’t fit

Pants are baggy and

Falling off my ass like a

Gangster with no belt

7

Some days I push so

Hard my heart feels like it will

Burst from my rib cage

8

Some days my abs hurt

So much it is difficult

To sit in a chair

9

I don’t work out to

Be healthy, I do it to

Look sexy in bed

10, 11, & 12

Losing the weight that

Has found its home in my mid

Section has boosted

My self-confidence

But knowing that I can skip

Meals like a high school

Senior skips classes

For roller coasters, is the

Monster in my head

13

I have ran for miles

In one place, I am now a

Stagnant traveler

14 & 15

The amount of sweat

Dripping off my shirt when I’m

Finished could save the

Lives of thousands, all

You need are water filters

And a thirsty mouth

16

The elliptical

Is an awful friend, boring

And helpful at once