a little rain
little miss sunshine
with her sponge bob umbrella pointed leaning-tower like
negating its purpose
& i wet and wetter say- come here child
let me show you how to hold it
but her like me in looks and ears that only hear what they want-continues
spinning and pointing towards house, car, grass not sky.
She radiates happy
the way she laughs and smiles
& i think that maybe for the last 23 years its me
whose been holding the umbrella wrong
Fit the Description
I guess I forgot passage 126 line D, in life’s little handbook.
The one stating never get out the car when pulled over
not even when trying to explain a shorted brake light due to a crack letting in rain.
Which makes the funniest sound when bouncing off a gun
A pling pling with each drop on steel
and you listen
not to the booming screams of “Get your fucking hands up”
“get your fucking hands up now”
“Just give me a reason, I’ll blow your fucking head off”
but to the pling pling.
I don’t see their faces
couldn’t tell you the eye color of the first man or the hair color of the sixth,
but I could pick their hands out in a photograph line up,
fingers clutching choking plastic grips
connected to tunnels that seem not to end
but they do, each holding little surprises
waiting to tear through my flesh and break my heart
whoever thought I’d be so popular.
-And sleep comes easy-
you lie so postcard beautiful
in the not so dark of 2am
sprawled out in the car wreak of sleep
toes dim lit by the afterglow of infomercials.
you turn and twist,
and I follow each curve of blanket and skin
like passing taillights,
up the long leg of road to back to neck
disappearing under auburn-brown hair
that filters soft through fingertips
and smells the way orchids should smell
light and sweet. as your smile
flickering bright, so eyes closed I still see.
Whisper to bind
she says on days like these
she’d rather be home playing hide and seek with waking
twisted and buried under a mole hill of white blanket
and even with her eyes closed
she’d feel the sun poking through blinds to whisper…
…whatever it is the sun whispers…on days like these
she’d rather be dreaming of transparent water
blue and green slowly mixing with the white sands
of a foreign paradise.
and the air, it would smell like the kiwi-mango lotion
that sits on her dresser. presently
days like these consist of her window watching
the sand birth mud,
wet and wetter and…
in the glass,
i can see her reflection.
personally, days like these
they don’t seem so bad
Cliff diving
Where’s my fiancé
Oh, she
drove
off
a
cliff.
it happens, I’m ok
have your fun while it last right
it was fun she was fun
not the end, all drama
yelling and hurt, tied up
emotionally, not the good bondage way
with the red licorice like in year 1 and 2
not 3, all drama
I’m ok, it happens
I don’t miss, well sometimes
she had this smile….and her eyes
and lips….I don’t miss her
I’m ok, and better off
no more crutch, independent, young, prime of life
alone? No
I don’t feel it, never
I bought fish
2 of ‘em, yesterday
she liked fish
but it happens
driving off cliffs and all
and I’m ok
Dreams sneak up
The little one that looks so much like me
All ears and grin
She’s created an Everest of sheets on the floor
And bounces higher than any 2yr old should
grasping stratosphere
before somersaulting into the womb of polly-blend
surfacing for air—- her laughter echoes softly against the walls
and tip toes down the hallway. Into the kitchen. Out the door.
And the little one all ears and grin, still swimming in cloth
Speaks her speak. A native tongue I’ve long forgot.
But I imagine it goes something like “je t’aime, je t’aime ”
Tuesday
The house across the street caught on fire yesterday. Electrical.
There weren’t any flames to be seen, no orange streaks dancing from rooftop to rooftop scorching the horizon.
Just smoke. Charcoal grey and thick as any fluffy white cloud dotting the summer sky. I felt guilty watching, and guiltier for enjoying the smell.
