Sonnet

His brow is furrowed, but not in anger

His eyes light up as you walk together

And although you know there is no danger

You must tell yourself it’s not forever

You know the truth, though prefer to deny

He might dishearten and leave you broken

Yet there’s something like love trapped in his eyes

Words, he too, is afraid to hear spoken

So now you decide what path you will take

Silence and confession have pros and cons

Will you discover his heart is true or fake?

You imagine he will love, dote, and fawn

              Over you. But you fear you’re wrong, and he

              Will leave you alone, defective, and empty

Invisible Lines

It’s the top of the world,

but not really.

The Royal Greenwich Observatory,

a tall red and white building atop a

steep gray and green hill under

gray, somber clouds. A large orange

globe sits impaled on a spire

piercing the sky. From this, all the invisible

ships will set their clocks and dash off

around the world. I, on the other hand,

am reminded of a giant juicy peach

slipping down the Empire State Building.

A pigeon hops and flutters across a

glass-like line in the ground.

The students toss bits of bread and crackers

left from snacks and lunch around the pier,

watching him skitter to eat his fill.

He thoughtlessly skips from one side

to the other, not realizing the importance

of being an hour ahead or behind.

How foolish we must seem, making

such a commotion over an invisible barrier

and a fictional concept

such as time zones.

Bed of Tears

Pull the blanket tighter.

Feel its warmth, like a

friendly reminder the world has not ended.

For it hasn’t.

Classes continue as if

nothing has happened and no one could

bother to notice if something had.

This room is safe.

Untouched by anyone uninvited,

it is the one place left to curl up and cry.

Dying could be an option

as well, considering how bleak everything looks

from the bed.

No one seemed particularly shocked

when it happened, when he gave up

with a curse and all capital letters.

His temper had been bound to flare,

but maybe that had been the goal all along?

Thousands of miles had been filled

with yelling, fighting, a green-eyed monster

over something that never happened,

and probably never would have.

And when the distance was reduced,

silence unforgivingly invaded and any

love felt, lost.

Turn the pillow to the

cooler side, for surely it has dried

by now. Let it soak up the tears that make this bed.

I have made it,

and until some saving grace determines otherwise,

here I shall lie, alone.

Gravity and Yoga

Breathe in

Positivity, light, wholesomeness, love

Breathe out

Stress, anger, thoughtlessness, mistakes

Focus on your breathing

Floating…

Racing thoughts cease

Breathe actively

Weightlessness surrounds me

Feel your breath—

White nothingness abounds

—fill the back of your lungs

A pure silence before unknown

Engage your diaphragm

Discomfort, falling and strain

Ignore the intruder

Follow the path—

Internal serenity found despite an incessant voice

—your breath takes—

Floating easily, yet struggling

—through your body

Tethered down, unable to be free

/…/

Silence

Finally able to enjoy floating, unrestrained

Reality rushes back, noise

I miss the voice

Memory of a Little One

“Teagen!” she cries, her frightened voice

drifting down the hall and through the two

doors separating us.

Her call jolts me awake

from my attempt at a nap beside my

love’s warm body—soft, sculpted, secure,

though he has yet to see that

in himself.

Her room is a tumble of stuffed

toys, blankets, and dress up clothes.

At the white and pink bed, she

half sits, half stands, rubbing her

eyes, blonde hair tousled.

“What is it, baby?” Kneeling before

her pink clothed form, frail and small,

the only word she seems to know is no.

Wrapped gently in my arms, her head

lolls on my shoulder. She is a stubborn

one, determined her naptime is over

and her father, my love, will not do; in my lap,

she sits and makes a bed of my belly and bosom

where she alternates between quiet contentedness

and a restless search for awakeness.

The soothing swaying of the armchair is spoiled by

incessant squeaking, so I settle for holding her

and renew the search for my own sleep.

Moments later, she slips from my lap

in a whirlwind of energy, and begs, jumping—

her white blonde curls flying up—for the movie with cat bus.

800 Some Miles

A screen is the gateway across 800 some miles.

In an instant the distance is lost.

Separate time zones collide,

Though my solitary surroundings never change.

A tiny camera,

The circumference of a pencil,

Becomes a window into a world

Of a child laughing, oversimplified songs

Accompanied by overacting,

And you, overflowing with affection.

And though voices and images

Can travel the distance,

We oft opt for a keyboard and screen.

Your voice becomes the tapping of keys.

Your face preserved in snapshots

To be drunk and memorized.

Your words, which can be measured,

Perfected in the time before clicking

The beveled send button,

Remain raw and very much you.

And across 800 some miles,

Through a screen, keyboard, device,

Your life and love melds with mine,

Encased in an embrace

Of meant to be,

Engaged to be,

It is.

A Daughter and a Man

For years, I knew I had been missing

something, though I had learned only the fear

of being forgotten or taken by the cruel touch

of a man who wanted nothing but tears.

And though a part of me continued longing

for love, security, I remained just someone’s daughter.

Then I met a man with a young daughter,

not yet two years old, her mother missing

from her life. A woman who left his heart longing

for someone faithful who wouldn’t give him reason to fear

he gave his love in vain. Someone who wouldn’t leave tears

in her wake, destroying everything she might touch.

Meeting by a virtual waterfall, how could we touch

each other so profoundly? How could his lovely daughter

not be terrifying, but impelling? There were days when tears

danced down my cheeks as we learned each other. Missing

him was rare as we filled each day with conversation and the fear

it wouldn’t work, despite our love, and we’d be left longing

for the other, settling for another, someone closer. Longing

for a person miles away whom we could not touch

and could only dream of meeting. But fear

festered in my mind. I couldn’t be there for his daughter

and be the mother she needed. Not when I would be missing

her first time reading by herself, the tears

from a scuffed knee at daycare, or days indoors when tears

fell from the sky before she’s too old to know more than longing

to play outside. I would be no better than her mother, missing

her life. He was comforting, emoting tender touch

I imagined I could feel. We would wait and see, but his daughter

would love me when we met, I should have no fear.

He has a way of washing away every trace of fear

and making it seem silly. His voice soothes away tears

caused by feelings of inadequacy. His daughter

is fortunate to have a father who will not leave her longing

for a mother, whose love is evident in his tone and touch.

He’s filled my soul where something had been missing.

There is no fear in meeting my love’s touch,

only in missing him when I depart. But I have been longing

to meet him and his daughter, and hope my leaving sees few tears.

Tarot

Cradle the deck in your hands,

Gently like a newborn child,

And press cool finished paper to your

            Lips

            Forehead

            Heart

Wherever you feel the energy pulse inside you.

Let the cards be drawn to you,

Your energy soaking them in light,

Filling them with your essence as you

            Breathe

            Focus

            Pray

And prepare them to connect you with yourself.

There is a reason to call upon the deck,

Whether for guidance or curiosity,

And each time connects your soul to the

            Goddess

            God

            Cosmos

So comfort and understanding accompany the news.

What news is to be received depends on you

And the enlightenment you seek

As you toss around in your mind a single

            Thought

            Question

            Concern

To be given up in sacrifice for blunt advice.

And yet the answers given can only be deciphered

From their cryptic, generalized state

By the reader who is willing to

            Accept

            Interpret

            Understand

The clarity provided by the cards.

For the reader knows answers already lie waiting inside.

5 Minutes

You can do anything for 5 minutes.       

            A short mantra pushing you in those final moments

            When that ache in your lower back

            Compliments the burning in your thighs

            And the shortness of your breath.

            Keep going,

You can do anything for 4 minutes.       

            Rest a moment beside a curtain of water

            On slick, glistening rocks, unaware

            The next moments carve a course of possibilities

            As turbulent and smooth as the river ahead.

            Don’t stop,

You can do anything for 3 minutes.       

            Imitate Gene Kelly without a care in the world

            As heavy drops rap on the umbrella

            Or splash on your face and shoulders

            As you lose yourself in swinging around a lamppost.

            Concentrate,

You can do anything for 2 minutes.

            Feel the warmth envelope you

            As a light breeze plays across your face.

            Breathe in the pollen filled air, listening

            To cheery birds and praying not to sneeze.

            Almost there,

You can do anything for 1 minute.        

            Seek the source of the cool air that brushes,

            Briefly, over your burning, drenched skin.

            It’s a tempting lure away from the machine,

            But victory and accomplishment are close at hand.

            Push harder,

You can do anything for 30 seconds.

            Even die a little, but not really.

            Hold your breath and feel the ease in the

            First 10 seconds before your lungs burn and chest tightens

            And eventually forces you to suck in fresh air.

            Count down,

5…4…3…2…1.

In 5 minutes, you just surpassed your expectations

Of yourself and pulled through.

Body aches and muscles sore, but in that good,

I finished something, sort of way.

You can thank a wandering mind later.

Bored Room

“I move to blahdy blah…”

“Second!”

Always a race and the most interesting part of the night

to be the first to second whatever is moved;

isn’t that sad and almost pathetic

for the highlight of the meeting

to be a race,

—like Mario Kart minus the dreadful dangers

of Rainbow Road and Wario’s Gold Mine,

or the thrilling rush of pressing the buzzer first

in Jeopardy-like games—when

really we are here to serve a higher purpose

as representatives

for one thing or another, although some don’t seem to care,

letting our hard work and endless nights go

unnoticed. Hard work that oftentimes is

boring and sees more members drifting

or wandering off to the forests of social media, email,

and note passing. If only our high

school teachers could see us now; how strange

it must seem for note passing to be acceptable,

encouraged even,

so the meeting may resume uninterrupted

by murmurs and whispers of

making plans, listing complaints, and playing

Who Has More Classwork They Could Be Doing Right Now.

And yet, through the boredom and minds

drifting away on fluffy white clouds,

everyone perks an ear for those three little words,

regardless what follows after,

and the chance to glow with pride, winning the race

that is barely enough

to keep their interest.

Building and Breaking Boxes

“Who are you?”

A simple enough question you ask

At least simple on the surface

Because, really, you only ask

            Out of politeness

            Out of custom

            Out of a need to hear the answer you want

Because you already know what answer you want to hear

You look me over and see my skin

            Tan

            Sunburnt

            Pale as snow

And you know the answer you expect

            White

                        Western, maybe Eastern European

            Christian

                        Catholic, maybe Lutheran

            Female

                        Without question and always femme

            Straight

                        Because anything else would make you uncomfortable

So why do you ask?

Because if I were to tell you

My family

                        My history

                        My heritage

            Is more colorful

It would ruin the boxes you’ve already made for me

It would upend your understanding of the world

Because it’s not

            What you expect

            What you know

            What you’ve learned is proper

And yet, you still ask

What would you think if I said I was mixed?

            One white father

            One black mother

How would you react if I added

            One freed slave?

            One Choctaw princess?

            Polka-loving immigrants?

Which box do I belong in now?

            White

            Black

            Red

            Rainbow

But Rainbow suggests I break straight

            I like girls

            I don’t like men

            Or maybe only sometimes

And yet, that doesn’t encompass it all

            I like girls

                        But not to kiss

            I don’t like men

                        When they’re assholes

            And maybe only sometimes

                        I say, “Tie me up”

But why stop there?

Your projected Christian beliefs mean nothing

For Christ is to you

What Goddess is to me

And my Goddess is

            Loving

            Guiding

            Accepting

But these things you cannot see

            Cannot comprehend

Because to you Christ is everything

And without Christ you are nothing

Surely your last box is

Safe

            Unscathed

            Somewhere I fit

And most days I do

Femme, polite, well-dressed

            Ever smiling

            Ever graceful

            Ever witty

                        But only just enough

And then off days occur

            Bitter

            Angry

            Mean-spirited

Or self-conscious, self-loathing days

            Unclean

            Unkempt

            Tear-stained and broken

And femme, polite, well-dressed

Are the last things on my mind

So have I broken your boxes?

            Wrecked your safe world

            Destroyed your perception

                        Of the tidiness of people

                        Of the clear distinctions in society

                        Of the way our world works

Have I taught you not to

            Assume

            Judge

            Pigeonhole

                        Before you know for sure?

Or have you given up hope

Forsaken me

Written me off as

            An anomaly

            An Other

            “One of Those People”

Or now, perhaps, you’ll ask what I do

            And box me up in that way

For if I do anything at all

            Creative

            Non-traditional

            Different

                        It all makes sense

I can be written off as

            An Artist

            A Hippie

            “One of Those People”

And if I do something practical like

            Marketing

            Managing

            Mothering

I also suddenly make sense

            Provided you forget everything else

And yet this cycle is unending

Questions will follow until

            Eventually

                        I fit neatly into boxes

                                    Even if I have to be edited first

So the question remains

“Who are you?”

To save us the trouble and time

I give my name

I give my common acquaintance

            If any

And I leave it at that

And you will box me up in your once over

            White

            Christian

            Female

            Straight

And there I will live in your mind

Until one day you discover I’m not

            At least on occasion

And when that happens

Who I am

Becomes more complex than you made it

When you learn that

Maybe you’ll be ready to

            Break down your boxes

            Expand your horizon

            Understand something different

                        Complex

Or maybe

            You’ll just build new boxes