:: nurture ::

We are small souls
tucked deep into the cavern of our thoughts,
but contrary to popular belief 
it is not cold here.

The winds and waters rumble ‘round—
the cold rushes by—
but we cannot see them. 
Our eyes are full of warmth
in the nook
of the heart
we have found.

in the wide expanse of space
a little warmth fizzles out, 
but in the tiny quarters of two insignificant people 
small flames can become stable heat sources.

With combined efforts—though, unlike the song, 
we will not light the world on fire—
perhaps we will set some molecules moving, 
and they will bump others into motion, 
and eventually…
everything in the universe
will shift a little bit.

:: promises ::

She drops 
two superfluous words 
onto the sizzling surface of the moment; 
in an instant they are done. 
The first bite brings tears to his eyes,  
as the blessed warmth 
singes its way to his stomach. 

:: reflections of a stretched-out-self ::

In this moment all things remind me of my insufficiency;
they speak the fullness of my lack, the space between
my own reach and the infinite span of goodness, 
the heights of humanity’s peaks. 

Is it enough, then, to be a valley in the world of men? 
But valleys are too unique—too hidden, too secret, far too unusual. 
I am no secret garden, no secluded bower, no luxurious retreat.

Is it enough, then, to be a plain in the midst of plains, 
part of the seamless carpet man spreads his cities upon 
and stretches his highways throughout? To lie there, nameless, 
circled by expectations of the shortest distance and the quickest rout. 

Like glass I am stretched and spun, held over the flame to soften before 
yet again I am shaped by the fire. How sad that either I or the hands 
that hold me must be aflame in order for work to be done. 

Yet if I am glass I am shaped by another for another’s ends, 
and if I am a plain I am part of a shape I cannot see, 
and in the end my posturing thoughts don’t matter after all, 
except to me. 

:: forgetfulness ::

What happened to you, 
when the sky no longer mattered
and you had to force yourself 
to remember how to drive?

What happened then, 
that you lost your grip,
your white-knuckled grip, 
and wondered what the dog saw
as he panted out the window?

What made you remember,
the second before the car behind you honked, 
that green meant go and you were first in line?

I hope you know—because I knew it then
and wish I could remember.

:: loneliness: II ::

I hear the wind outside, 
and it makes me glad that I am here, 
where the winds that rip through sweaters and touch
their freezing fingers teasingly to our necks
cannot come in. 

But some nights I miss the trees. 

I hear her voice outside, 
and it makes me glad that I am here, 
where her words that rip through motives and burn
her seething anger cripplingly to our hopes
cannot come in. 

But some nights I miss her warmth.

:: loneliness: III ::

I spent those quiet afternoons not in his study 
but in his workroom, peeking over at the knobs and blips and wires, 
fascinated with the clicks and whirs that translated to words 
that someone else knew how to hear. 
We spoke across the world, and I could hear the mechanical motions 
of a conversation, the technological muscles stretching across 
the interim space, the wonder of a child at a language unlike any  
other she had ever heard before.  

So I asked her how she liked it, 
and she said she didn’t care. 
“It’s his thing”, she told me, 
“and I keep my nose out of it.” 

Years later she complained he didn’t love her, and I wondered 
how she hadn’t noticed before 
the distance his radio could not communicate across. 

:: the prelude ::

I thought I would always, at least, have words—
have bricks to form the path to walk on. It works, most days, 
to build bridges between hearts that hold up for a conversation, 
most times last a year. 

But I didn’t turn around to see the caverns in myself, 
to realize I needed bricks to cross my own inner canyons, 
to understand I didn’t know where to start. 

So these days I must needs write without direction, 
walk without a map in a place where my inner compass
doesn’t have a clue.

Some say you cannot find what you want 
unless you know what you want; I think
I cannot find what I want
because I would know what I wanted when I found it
and I haven’t found it yet.

:: loneliness: I ::

I babysat some sweet kids tonight, and when the father came
to herd his children home—the mom was gone—
he mentioned how he wished his little girl,
now just turned two, would want to 
cuddle with him. ”Because,” he said, “it’s not the same
when she gets older.” As if the time’s no longer right.

I choked.

It’s not the same when she gets older—
of course! it couldn’t be. But surely
it means more. If only
hugging her now could pave the way
for hugging her tighter later, when her 
pain is more than missing her mother and
not knowing why the world is so big.

We all grow up to bear much bigger hurts,
and the comforts, rather than increasing to match our burdens, 
dissolve.

::: the couch :::

We sat there, 
five feet from the doorway to 
the places I can’t face, 
five feet from the expectations 
I can neither release or fulfill.

We sat there 
as if I was chained in the front yard 
like an overachieving dog barking at the mailman, 
as if this was as far from the house as I could reach 
because I was still attached.

I held your face in my hands, and you spoke gently—
and there the moment froze,
and each second was me clinging to the warmth in your face—
I remembered you spoke,
and I had to think for a minute to hear what you said because 
I was so amazed that you were here—
that I was here—
that I was holding your stubbly face in my hands, 
and that you were speaking, so gently, 
to me.

From a far distance someone was yelling in the next room, 
but it didn’t matter anymore. 

::: bits and pieces :::

words lie dormant under my tongue
peeking out to see the stars once in a wild moon, 
tossing and turning between my teeth; 
I mumble all I speak. 
I have become like a child in bed, 
rumpling the sheets, one foot off the side, a dirty pillow atop his head,
who wakes up on the carpet cold and sore, wondering how in the world
he got there in the first place.
I dream I know not what, but thought I knew, 
until I woke up cold, and thought of you.