in these quiet small hours of the night
Remember that night we sat on your doorsteps
talking after the party. Your hair was longer
back then; I had wine stains on my sundress.
You said it felt good to be here, and I
laid my head on your shoulder. Remember
we were laughing. Remember we laughed
so hard that even the sky chuckled,
and then the clouds parted,
and love,
raindrops, and lips
fell.
The intimacy contained within
the exchange of a glance, a nod
of the head, a smile.
The closeness that lasts
for the duration of a song
listened together.
An agreement about a feeling.
An agreement about life.
You feel like the deep
exhale after a long day
the quiet fireplace
in my hollowed chest
I want to lie forever
inside your pocket
You are sunset.
You are nostalgia.
You are home.
May you wake up in time
to catch the last lingering star
leaving quietly into the haze of dawn
Know that it was there
Know that it gave you light
Not as dazzling as the blazing sun
But it loved you
It love you quietly
through the darkest night
Seven Year Itch
The therapist says we should go back
to the orange groves in Florida again.
Some people write you poems – love poems
that could burn a house down in your chest –
they leave you breathless, leave you longing,
and then they just leave, so fast you could taste
dust in your mouth. Some people linger like a
fog, want to stay friends, want to come over
when they feel lonely. Some people forget
to wash the dirty dishes in the sink, forget to
buy milk, forget your birthday and the way
you used to laugh. Some people wake up at night
to tuck the blanket under your chin. Some people
love to exclaim, look what I have done for you!
Some people kiss to turn you inside out,
to adore every secret corner. They kiss
as if your lips were home, haven, the place
that they want to stay forever. Some people
kiss so they could go somewhere else, eyes
open, hands fumbling with your blouse buttons.
Some people can’t say I love you until
they’ve studied your past, the exes you’ve
dated, the mistakes you’ve made. God knows
there must be a war raging inside their soul.
Some people chase wild things, hunt them at night
for thrills, and stumble back to your bed at
five a.m., smelling of cheap booze and
strangers. Some people want to bake all kinds
of bread for you, stay home with you, cuddles
and warm socks, hot cocoa on the couch.
Some love is the fire that warms you through and
through, and you will never grow cold again.
Some love is the gum that gets stuck underneath
your shoes. Makes you walk unevenly for miles.
Becomes nasty. Becomes quite impossible to get rid of.
the funny feeling of
an orange popsicle
trickling down
from fingers
to elbow.
Standing at the Altar
He steals a glance at her.
She sits in the back, fighting tears.
The bride marches in, smiling, holding peonies.
I want to read the story
that you would have written
if you weren’t afraid, he said,
tell me where you have been,
the nameless cliff that you
fell from, turn it to words,
and keep writing until
it has lost its power
to hurt you.
Now I have the same
look in my eyes as
my mother once had
the ancient sadness
that I never thought
would become mine.
SW Altair 