Portrait: Sun Rising Over the Park, in Summer Press

With your hand pressing against
the small of my back lightly,
I walk slowly, painfully through
the dripping rain.
It's not painful because of you,
your arm, shoulder, against me,
supports my crumbling wall, this flood,
of emotions, helping me keep it all
from tumbling down.
There's so much, threatening, frightening.
I'm lost,
with no way back to me.
You have no idea, no idea,
of why I'm walking quietly, feet dragging,
tears mixing with the almost sweet taste of raindrops
running down my face,
yet you pull me in closer,
hugging your arms around me,
as if to guard, protect me, from
...myself...?
You wipe away tears and now-ruined makeup,
leading me to a lone pair of swings
blending into the misty dark gray scenery.
We sway back and forth,
the gentle movement, and your hand in mine,
helps dry my tears and lays down the
first few squiggly, uncertain lines onto the
map leading me back.
Back to smiling silliness,
back to unrushed days,
and back to my sense
of purpose, of direction.
As my tears dry up, so does the rain,
and the swift movement of the clouds
reveals acres of thick creamy dark midnight black silk,
spotted with pearls, shining bright as stars.
I finally begin to talk, spill, vent,
after you jump from your swing and pull me
from mine to lay in the damp, prickly grass.
You listen silently, yet I know you listen
through your fingertips lightly caressing my arm
and the brush of your lips on my wet, curling hair.
I finish talking, and you raise yourself up,
supported by an elbow lodged in the cool earth,
and begin to speak.
Now it's my turn to listen,
and for the first time
the paint, the finish, is peeled back
and I can see who you really are,
the side you hide so deeply, deliberately,
underneath so much.
You understand me almost completely,
and that shocks me.
I feel you know me better,
more accurately, truly,
than any one of my friends,
who pride themselves on how
"well" they know and understand me.
I feel the cool breeze brush against my
bare arms and shiver involuntarily.
You curl up, closer, blocking out
the cold, the hurt, the pain,
and slowly I slip into sleep,
light as the breeze that chilled me so,
and we both rest, underneath the
gazing eye of the stars and the
invisible, yet inevitably present, moon.
I awake just as the sun slips above the
edge of the earth, the golden-pink rays
touching on my skin, your face,
the intricate, silvery chains of the swings
and we both stand, slowly, reverently,
your arm 'round my waist, hand resting on
my hip and amble back towards our
homes, lives, days,
leaving the fond, mysterious wisps of
memory to follow us closely,
throughout the months, seconds, ages
tying us to that night, and to each other,
with a knot of love and understanding.
The hope of the future guides me,
my map, back into
just exactly who I am.

Homesickness (Press)

The sound of the leaves reminds me of the ocean.
I miss it.
The faint taste of salt lingers on my fingertips,
left over from the ice cream we made in Chemistry.
Between these and the cool breeze blowing across the page,
I am homesick.
Not for my house, sitting quietly on my car-lined street,
though that is my "home",
but for the hot sandy beach and the
sound of my friends goofing off among the waves,
which is also a kind of home for me.
The heat here is similar to that which I sat through there,
lost in reflection on the warm, wooden bench,
but the sky there is bluer, the clouds whiter,
or at least, to me, that's what it seems like
though that may be just me, trying to find some reason,
explanation, for this feeling of homesickness
I can't otherwise explain.
The friends I have here are the same ones
that traveled with me there
and the sun, the sky, clouds, are also the same.
Or maybe it's just the ocean,
the soft comings and goings of the waves
as the tide moves farther away,
the birds overhead fighting for some food left behind
or just the knowledge that if I were to look up,
in any direction, anywhere, I would see my friends,
all sharing in the same feeling of awe, wonder, and fear
that I felt then.

Not Really My Thing (Press)

I'm alone.
You would think that being alone would be difficult,
in a house full of people.
(It's not)
There is one other person I know,
besides you and the person throwing the party.
(He's on the phone)
I stand, alone, in the kitchen.
You, oh. I dunno...
You're somewhere (I guess)
So I just stand, hugging my arms to myself
watching the timer blink slowly down from 30 minutes.
I listen to various cars pull up
and the hurried introductions.
(and I try not to listen as the group of girls
sprawled around the... living room?
talk of which drugs they brought,
how much, and when...)
My ex is outside smoking,
along with another girl whose face I know
(but name I can't recall...)
Somewhere, a cell phone rings,
and is picked up with a giggly hellll-ooh?
She mentions something about bringing alcohol
(something good...)
and I turn away to stare again at the timer,
counting down the final seconds
(3...2...1...)
I search the kitchen blindly before a pair of
arms in dark red silk gloves slips into
view on my right, grabs two floral-printed
hot pads sitting clearly (obviously...) on the
counter and opens up the oven, pulling out the
mottled pink cake.
"Looks like crap." the glove-wearer comments.
"Probably tastes like crap too." I reply.
We giggle, introduce ourselves and poke at the
supposed "birthday cake" with a butcher knife pulled from
the wooden block sitting crookedly on
the crumb-scattered counter.
Someone in that group of girls calls her name though,
and again I'm alone in the kitchen.
You run, or more like bound, down the stairs and
smile as you see me.
The "host" of this party, until now absent-
out somwhere in the front yard I guess-
walks over with even more people
(how many have I met already?)
and runs down the list of names
(I'll never remember them...)
He picks up his camera from the table
and motions for us to pose for a picture
(I try and fake a smile...)
"No! Let's get a 'happy couple' picture...
like... put your arm around her!"
You do, and the camera flashes on my smile.
(no longer fake...)

Your Name (Press)

I sit there, in between
thoughts, breathing
gently with the wind
in the hushed music
of this moment,
when a shadow,
a small grain of sand,
a fallen leaf
settles in my mind,
until a person,
a rock,
a growing tree
stands there and blocks the sun
and I am no longer in
that dreamy middle place
as I wake to
loud cars,
rain clouds,
and my cat sitting in the window.
The breeze whispers in my ear,
and simply sighs
your name.

Daydreams (Press)

I sit,
back leaning against
the smooth, warm tiles,
the sun glaring brightly,
forcing me to squint
as I gaze around the school yard.
I can see cars driving
lazily into the parking lot,
around the circle,
as if the heat of the day
forces them to creep along,
as though driving through syrup.
Not the thin, runny kind you get in
breakfast diners, but
the thick, mapley syrup your
parents always serve with pancakes on
Christmas and Easter,
the kind that practically glues them
together and stops all conversation.
Distant shouts carry over from
the soccer field as the
various members of the track and
soccer teams begin stretching...
One, Two, Three, Four...
Already moving sluggishly in the
sultry weather, barely even
fifteen minutes into practice.
I try and pick my friends out of the
tiny, almost indistinguishable figures
until I feel something brush against
my arm and I turn to see
you
slip next to me on the bench.
I freeze, and words trickle slowly
out of my head, landing
helter-skelter in the mud at the
base of the wall and leaving my mind
blank.
You smile, say "hey," ask how I'm doing
and I reply casually,
trying to mask my nervousness with
a smile, as I twirl strands of
my hair around my fingers restlessly
and cross and uncross my legs.
You notice, and on your face I
can see you making these as
nervous habits as a flash of confusion
precedes a look I take to signify understanding.
So you know now, then?
Know it's all because of my feelings for you?
Our conversatin continues, and
you reach out without thinking and touch
my arm, briefly, emphasizing a point,
hand resting lightly on my sleeve.
You pause, and in your eyes I can
see your feelings, thoughts
a mirror image of mine,
reflecting, as you lean in,
brush the hair from my face,
and kiss me.

A Locked Cabinet (Press)

It sits staring blankly back at me,
old, slightly wobbly, and larger than I remembered.
Somewhere, sometime, in years long gone,
it sat in the drawing room,
relaxin in the corner, soaking up the light
peeking through half-closed blinds.
Someone moved it.
Now it continues to stare at, or almost
through me, from its new vantage point
at the bottom of the sweeping, or rather
"need to be swept" stairs.
It's out of place.
The entryway furniture was picked purposefully,
to match the paint on the walls and the
bland, if "tasteful," runner inching up those stairs,
it's all light, tan, almost the color of sand.
Not the cabinet.
Dark, cherry wood and at least a hundred years
old, it sits quietly, almost menacingly,
half-covered in shadows and dust.
It's locked.
It always has been.
I remember when I was young,
I made a game out of trying to
figure out what a cabinet that
I thought of as... almost majestic in it's mystery,
could contain.
Now though, all the old guessing games stop,
for I have the key.

Cansada/Tired (Bless)

¿Por qué quieres matarme así?
con tu voz suave y tu música
mi alma está muriendo muy despacio,
y mis ojos oscuros y vacíos sólo miran
a la pelea aquí en mi cuerpo
el viento me asusta por la noche
en mis sueños, no puedo dormir,
no puedo comer, porque estoy tan enferma
por tí, me siento muerta ahora,
caminando por las calles sucias
que nunca terminan.
Antes de que tú llegaste
yo estaba llena, completa
pero pusiste un hueco negro
en mi existencia que tú sólo puedes reparar.
cada día, cada noche, cada vez que pienso en tí,
se hace más profundo y yo cambio más
no puedo ver mi cara por el espejo,
y no voy a regresar.

Why do you want to kill me like this?
with your soft voice and your music
my soul is dying slowly,
and my dark and empty eyes just watch
the fight here in my body
the wind frightens me at night
in my dreams, I cannot sleep,
I can't eat because I am so sick
for you, I feel dead now,
walking through the dirty streets
that never end.
Before you came, I was full and complete,
but you put a black hole
in my existence that only you can repair.
each day, each night, each time I think of you,
it becomes deeper and I change more
I cannot see my face in the mirror,
and I will not return.