Keys

On a typewriter
with sticky keys
left by a previous tenant
I rewrite history.
In the awkward silence
of a repetitive I
I
I
I wonder
if you'll ever pay rent
on the ever-expanding space you take up.
out of room in my head
overflowing my heart
cracking under the strain
in the repetitive click
of the invisible I
I
I
I glance
at my apron
hanging under a water-stained ceiling.
A testament.

Ephemeral (edit)

I wrote this a long time ago.  I came back to it today.

I am haunted by dreams. 

By the memory of your eyes, in the sunlight through snow. 

Color shifting iris. 

Who’s to know what’s real?  The memory of your hand grazing my waist.

I’m wearing a dress you’ve never seen; you’d love it on your bird.

Nothing is sure, but the joy is constant.

The joy as great as the fear as great as the anger as great as the questions as great as the love.

Do I know you?

In songs we shared like secrets on pillows.  Trying to find peace.

But disinfecting a wound hurts.

And running makes us strong.

I dance to wring you from my mind.

My soul.

From every place you’ve touched.

Fire that won’t be put out by my tears.

Your shade won’t leave.

Dreams, weaving and twisted.

Wrapping around me without actually touching.

Cold breeze brushing my waist.

Drawing me in; leaving me blank.

Do I know you?

Dance.

Metaphor: In case you didn't get it

When I was a very young girl, I found a baby bird barely hanging on to life.  I took it home to save it.  By the time I got it the two blocks to my house, the chick was dead.  But I kept insisting it was alive.  If a breeze rustled its feathers, I took it for breath and movement.  I wanted it to live.  I wanted it to fly away.

When Leaving Doors Open

And so it ends
or does it begin
or just lengthen
the seconds between
when the tears fall
and
the sighs steady

In Dedication To

I stand hidden in the shadows
on the edge of a clearing
silent and watching you,
Cowardly Lion.
Soul raped
Heart rent
Body wracked
You stumbled here to lick your wounds.
Cornered and dangerous
Gnashing your teeth
I hold my breath
in the sudden silence
as you catch my scent on the air
hoping you cannot hear
the war drum trapped in my chest.
I know that should I move
Should I dare to reach out to you,
my veins would be ripped
and left as vines in your garden.
There is already too much of me buried there.
So, I brace myself
against a last roar of warning
before you bend back to your work.
Under a mask of snarling superiority
and a new dinner jacket,
you stand upright
to wander through trees
you still cannot see
pretending to be human
with a heart that beats a human beating.
But as you pass me
Unpausing
Unblinking
I hear your own drum crying.

Silver

I have two parallel silver strands in my hair, and I love them. They are a reminder that my youth is leaving me. Youth is a love affair I found too late, like most things I love. And like most things I love, I will hold on to it far past the time of letting go. I haven't let go. Not yet. I lean into the mirror, plucking my brow, sighing at the lines etched by stress. And life. And laughter. I lean into the mirror, thinking it could be today. Perhaps today. I will decide later.

The Boy

My son still asks if there is a Santa Claus. He tells me facts about the sun that no one has ever learned before. His excitement is quiet, but palpable. He carries a wooden sword for protection. He is never sure of when he might come across a rogue band of Yachets. That's Yah-Sheets. A race of humanoids who can only be killed if their heads are chopped off with a sword. He's never seen "Highlander" and I smile. If you cut off any other body part, it will just grow back. He'd rather be a Yachet. They don't have to deal with sisters. I say I'd miss him if he ran away with a roving pack. He says he'd turn me into a Yachet if he can figure out how to become one. His sister can go live with Nana. He practices his fighting moves just in case he is accepted, but carries his sword because he is still human. He will protect his family. Even his sister. And he tells me I'm the best mom.