Letting the Memory Settle

As we skipped rocks at Walden Pond in steady rain,

you told me I just needed practice,

that my outstretched hand needed to move

in one single, continuous motion.

You selected each stone with care, inspecting

their flatness as if choosing flowers for a date,

only to send them off into the gloom, certain

of their own uncertainly paced descents.

I laughed at your advice, my voice skipping

rhythmically despite my un-thrown stones.

We were part of our history class field trip,

and you asked, “Why does the water

only reflect parts of the trees?” I shrugged,

letting the question settle into the pond and practiced

questioning what parts of you I could see:

lone like a stone, easing me away with each ring

of water that expanded to meet the trees;

you alone, like Thoreau, without me.

 

Unknown, 2014

Floating

Loneliness

floating

on an autumn leaf,

winter turns to spring

so please speak softly:

we do not want to scare the buds.

They may hear the truth,

like a riddle

read off the page

and asked to solve for entry:

a one-way ticket over the bridge

from single to taken,

a world where kisses do not betray

and suitors come equipped

with emotional intelligence

and a bow and arrow.

I hear cupid,

underground,

readying himself up—

 

just another risk

the Earth will take.

 

 

April 10, 2019

The Revenant

Last night,

at the movie,

you sat next to me.

 

The theater

was full,

I sat alone

between you

and three guys,

conscious

of my singleness.

 

But then you

rolled over,

to share his faux

leather recliner,

and I smiled.

 

Most of the time,

my independence

likes being alone.

 

It gets its own seat.

 

March 5, 2016

Watching the Clock

Love

is a drug

that just keeps on giving

despite its worth,

commercialized

side effects

how to handle

a man

one on one

a manual

I was never given–

where is it?

 

The time I found

the nail

and all I wanted

was a hammar

to put me back in my place

I found you,

instead–

eyes glazed over

from the fact

that I was a well enabled

woman

to kick your ass

back to second base

 

Just tell me a story,

dear Love,

of how you existed

among priests

and kings

and witches

and me,

stories of younger days

past narratives

water drowning

my teacup

and all I want is an answer,

or at least the right question,

’cause I know I’m responsible

for making something–

more than this house

all alone,

wondering what time

to expect Love

to come

knocking on my door.

 

November 24, 2015

My Sister and I

A few seconds left

of number nine

waiting for now…

if it comes.

Yes, it’s here

I rush out of there

to my place,

where I can be alone-

but no,

there’s still that raincloud

above me whenever I’m there,

when the sun sets

and the moon glows

that dragon is under me.

When sunlight fills my window

she is over me;

When I am anywhere,

she’s there.

Bur if she wasn’t…

I wouldn’t.

If she disappeared in the moonlight

I’d be the cloud,

lifting her up

and although we’d be gone…

we’d be together, forever.


September, 2004
I wrote this poem in seventh grade amd recently found it in a long-lost journal.