At the counter a plate of eggs and sausage act as sides to the main act; Toast homemade jam butter spread thick, without apology As a child she added extra; lined each slice layered and thick Butter was her language of love Enjoy this without worry, her actions said Your body is perfect when its satiated sit here let me feed you I can hear her in every bite I see her hands in each layer I smile when a lot still isn’t quite right It’s only ever enough for her and for me when our hearts are full
Tag: poem
Temporary
I so badly wanted it
to be you.
It was temporary.
We were, that is.
That made it
no less real.
I sure did
like to pretend,
though.
I held on
just in case
i was proven
wrong.
enough
I am always somewhere else not in one place on to the next back there and even further on. Tell me, when will the waxing crescent above the setting sun be enough
smothered
Up until that point I had seen no clearer skies or stars as abundant I remember you in images of the fire on the shore sounds of the dark waves, the blanket on the sand- I read my book instead of looking at you under those stars. And tonight across the blackest of clouds a lighting storm a cascade of lines and energy of matter and change You were both there and not there Just the same as under the Milky Way at the shores of the Great Lakes on the edge of the fire that we smothered with sand and water.
she was there
glowing looking at me and through holding the son; the repair: blue and white hair the color of - there aren't words she was she and me and all in; holding him i crossed over the waning crescent, held and stroked. nothing was asked of me I was present - I was: and she loved and that was all that was. "Does she have a name?" no name, yet. she wasn't there for introductions she was there to show love to offer to nurture and I to receive.
I wonder about the people the ones who slip off their coat and place it on the seat or above in the train's compartment I wonder about the ones who keep their coats on the ones who haven't yet settled in the ones who are ready to leave I think there's a real difference between the two.
Lovable
He tells me
I am lovable
when I thought
for so long
I was not.
Battle
It's an ongoing battle
between evidence
for why you might
continue to choose me
and evidence
for all the reasons
you would not.
Language Barrier
In Portuguese
you describe
the point in your life
when you decided
to free yourself
from ties and commitment,
accountability.
In English
you said,
“Yes, I’m open.”
In your language,
in your truth,
you come to terms
with your spirit,
split in two
half existing elsewhere
the other seeking joy, here.
A vagabond has no home.
Potentially aimless,
leaving ruin in some places.
Excitement in others.
A vagabond cannot hold
what I’m asking to be held.
In your language, you proclaim,
“Eu ainda estou levando esta vida.”
Vagabundeando.
I reach for you in my own language.
Your answer is a mixture of
words I do not understand.
"Come here,"
I want to say.
Make a home in my chest,
have adventures with me.
You choose something else,
a different life.
A different person.
You choose everything but me.
I am no place for a vagabond.
I may be searching
but this heart has roots.
Light
He witnessed
what I had to offer,
it wasn't his to receive.
I still wonder
as I make room for the night
what it could be like
if he shared his own with me.
The Restless Crescent 