In returning and rest

shall you be delivered

In quietness and in trust

shall be your strength

Do not think me gentle
because I speak in praise
of gentleness, or elegant
because I honor the grace
that keeps this world. I am
a man crude as any,
gross of speech, intolerant,
stubborn, angry, full
of fits and furies. That I
may have spoken well
at times, is not natural.
A wonder is what it is.

You never cared for that color                 “Hunter” green—it reminds you of camouflage caps
and clunky boots, complements to a mix of blood with dirt.  God save deerfur. Humanfur.

And yet

those hands that never held a gun never gripped a             vice attach to arms that only cross, a heart
that buh-bums for no one, a mouth that        spits      only       swears.

“Likewise, tell the older women to be reverent
in behavior, not to be slanderers or slaves to drink.” – Titus 2:3

It was the big-bad monster underneath our beds.
We were taught to fear it, avoid it, just say no to it.

We feared its skin of scales and craters, the colors
of cancerous kidneys. We knew of its disguises, its lies.

But who knew that in its claws was skinny little you,
sick from sneaking vodka from underneath the sink.

Days are easy until they’re hard.

–

Comely

With it lit in her hand, the stereo
up louder, louder, the bass: deeper, deeper
she cries the lyrics “Oh comely. Oh comely.”

To her mouth the cigarette, her head
remembering the time they sang this together
in the car “I will be with you when you lose your breath”
on New Year’s Day and the promises of forever
taken back just three weeks ago
and hope of nothing

Blackness, the rain falling, the bass booming

Back to her mouth the smoke, the fig taste,
the forgiveness; I hate when you smoke
but none of that matters, none of that matters
it’s on repeat “Oh comely. Oh comely.”

To God: why? For you to get the glory, the credit,
your ya-ya’s? Her pain: it’s nothing, nothing
tomorrow she’ll forget and move on and nothing
ten years and she’ll forget
ten years and she’ll be married, happy
ten years and she’ll miss him and their dog named
after a song and their son

She coughs she coughs she coughs
and spits, he used to spit like this and wash
his hands after his smoke and wash his face
and kiss her
the smell lingered

If you’re here where are you? If you care
show up

Day 8

–

Preface: I meant for this poem to express the childishness and ignorance of a girl whose heart is broken. Part of the reason why I’m blogging every day is to track my progress. I know my first week’s posts were immature and whiny, and I imagine they will be for another few weeks. But that’s okay. I hope you all can bear with me for a while. Like the stages of grief, I have stages of maturity. When tragedy hits me I start by being formal (“After great pain, a formal feeling comes–”), then very immature. It takes me a while to let Head back into the picture.

So, until then, this poem:

–

Charm

“I will win him back,” she said
in the mirror, her sister…………—two months the wiser—
in the background: “How, Nan?…..How?”

Turning around, Nan, shirtless, standing,
…………..her purple finger-polished fingers
…………………pushing up under her bra,
…………………framing her favorite feature: “With my

……boobs.

And if that doesn’t work: my
…..charm,
…..wit,
…..sentiment,
…..sense
………….of security,
…..with promises I cannot keep
…..with compliments to his
……………………….manliness, to his
……………………….package, his
……………………….charm and his
……………………….wit.”

“If those don’t work?”

Nan pulled a shirt over her arms, covering her nearly bare
………….breasts. She looked back
………….into the mirror, not meeting
……………………………………her sister’s eyes:

…..“Then—I’ll cry.”

To be completely irreverent about the whole thing: Nathan and I are splitsville.

So, as any girl, poet, or immature child would do, I’m going to write about it.

Actually, I wrote this a while ago. But it fits.

–

Mei-

When all is said and done
we’ll call this mutual—

…………too many months of doors slamming,
crying, cold-shoulders, cursing, withholding
…………true feelings and touching

–but it’s anything but mutual.

You promised me forever,
as if you had that kind of power.

But I took you at your word.

I wrote this poem based on a drawing by my friend Jeff Beaver.

–

Hope has fluxed us

I’ve retraced my steps a thousand times
but still I don’t remember
……………………….what happened—
…………..where she went, where I went, how
…………..we separated, why we’re not together
………………………..when we should be.

…………………………………..Or should we be?

I met her at the costume party. She dressed as a first-class
…………..pirate—so she told me through sips of wine the color of her lips—
………………………..speech slurred—
………………………..the most delicate pirate I’d ever met.
…………..She said I looked beautiful.
………………………. So was she.

You introduced me to vices.
You lit my first cigarette. You were the first…….to touch me.

Does she remember the first time we—
…………..in the room with the green-striped couch with the windows…….open?
I heard robins chirping—“how cliché!” she laughed.
………………………How could I forget that laugh?

Does she remember the last time we
…………..saw each other? She stood across a room …….of strangers,
…………..mutual friends—Does she see me? Does she see me?—
………………………..Her brown eyes caught mine—a nod.

…………………………………….That was that.

I wonder about tomorrow. That letter I wrote—
…………..that lie I told myself. …..She’ll respond.
…………..I imagine which words she’ll choose—
…………..like—love—forever—someday—always—
………………………………………………………………never-again.

Hope—that song she sang, the birds, the open window—
………….has found us. Hope—I tell myself, locked away—has fucked us.
We’re in transit. We’re…….in flux—

……………………………………………………………….maybe—forever.