
Starting from the Middle
Life came out of me
a gush of red
Moon-pale I waited those eternal
stretched seconds
for my
arms to be filled
with you.
Looking at the end—
a twisted rock-solid path down which we'll gently
stroll together.
Hand in hand,
you're squeezing so tight
I think I might burst inside
but I will gently smile and wonder if you can see underneath
your mother's thin skin;
my secrets are yours to keep in a box
under the squeaking floorboard
my mouse-like steps awaken you,
it must be hard to breathe.
Searching for the beginning
fingertips feeling for signs of it in the dark:
it's cold to be ice,
to be hard; it was
sadness frozen that told me to run for my life,
run into my life,
to slip back into it
quickly
before it would be too tight to fasten comfortably
around my waist.
In the beginning there was an earth and a sky
to create—my job,
was to fill this space
with you.
Heap of a Human
Change your password,
Take down the framed photos,
Pull out his winter clothes from the top shelf.
When you see the worn pillows you got for your wedding
Focus on the faded velvet,
Not on how they made your first apartment look decent, grown up.
Think of 17 years as enough
Not as a milestone to be met with another 17.
When you remember the dimple that was always for you
Think of how happy it will make a woman who can enjoy
the rest of him along with it.
Take your time when you fall asleep alone in your king-sized bed
Don’t try to fill it with another warm body
Even if you swear you love its owner.
Your password is still his last name,
The one you never took as your own
And every time you turn on the flame under the iron skillet
You think of how he cooked for you as you nursed your babies
How he raised his hands in the air looking for a bowl for your placenta
after he watched you birth your child from the hallway
How he tied your babies to his back and
How he played guitar and sang for you night after night
As you nursed your newborn to sleep.
When you decide to leave,
When you decide that you are ready,
Don’t forget that everything in this house has a tag
has a date
has a moment or a thousand
attached to it:
The mugs he’s been trying to trash for years that you still hold on to.
The cutting board you’ve been scolded for using the wrong knife on.
The table around which you sit tensely because nothing can come with ease,
Not even a simple family dinner.
Remember the magazines in the bathroom
that hold articles he asked you to read but that you never did,
The side tables he hates because they came from your friend he once kicked out of your home for no good reason
The estate sale painting covering the kitchen wall that he didn’t want
until you twisted his arm and stomped your feet like a tantrumed child
because you thought some color on the wall
would make things prettier.
Easier to wake up to every morning.
Before you leave,
Collect your memories in a sack like treasured jewels
One by one,
Pick them up and hold them up to the sun for a moment:
Some will change color,
Some will altogether disappear,
Some will break your heart again
While others will make you tear your hair out.
Take this sack and tie it around your neck for the time being.
Ask yourself if they can all really fit,
if you can take them with you
as you enter another house
Another life
Another man
Another set of mugs.
As you sleep in a memory-less room
Will this sack lie comfortably on your chest
Or will you find yourself a sleepless heap of a human
Who has forgotten that a bag of jewels
can also sit heavily,
Can easily make you forget
That you still
remember
how
to breathe.
First Love After
We stand in your kitchen.
Our bodies move like bumper cars only
We are careful not to hit, not to
Crash into each other as we dance
This dance
This rhythm,
Our feet on the white linoleum
The photos on the fridge are not of me.