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.

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.