To Build a Home

What compels us to make

a bed

where there isn’t one?

 

The draw, the ebb and flow

of a promise

like a corpse;

 

Empty as a bottle,

but heavy like glass

 

Enough to make us believe

we have a chance

to love again.

 

What tells us to build a home

upon a wet foundation,

where new life has

already began to cultivate?

 

A bed of moss crushed

under our stillness, our

unwillingness to move forward.

 

What’s wrong with

planting a garden on

fertile land?

 

Untouched, pre-ripened,

 

A potential without promise.

Hot Seat

I sit in the beige folding chair

across from you

and I am on fire;

 

Cheek-stained, a hot rose

I clear my cinched throat

to speak,

 

But the weight of the air

falls on my voice.

 

I coax, stutter,

try to charm the words

out.

 

“You exceed all expectations of love,”

I could hear it,

a low whisper in my ear.

 

The yearn of you,

the red lust, the

flannel-warmth comfort of you…

 

I tried to pray you away,

an atheist woman, with

a strict ban placed on love,

her burning bird-cage,

locked like a jaw.

 

But the grip you had was firm,

an unmoving ghost with

a fleshed fist.

 

I draw the curtains and

pretend the world

is blind to us.

 

All we can see is the

dusty light leak,

the corners of the coffee table

at our feet.

 

Why are we so afraid?

 

Dirty Laundry

Three weeks had already gone by

when I realized all I’ve done is stare

down the mouth of the kitchen sink,

 

Walked down the same dim hallway,

drove the same street

 

When did We become I?

 

Coffee-stained, white t-shirts

and the one polaroid;

 

A chord from your ratted sweatshirt

pointed

at the front door.

 

All the dust

accumulated on books,

on shelves…

 

Every time he left

I would cry over the

nonexistent bath mat, wet floor

of him.

 

(over, and over, and over…)

 

I took to my knees to scrub

only to find that I

haven’t made a mess

to begin with.

 

I remember when he lit my

first cigarette back in January,

And I watched his brow,

illuminated by

a cold flame.

 

How south I was from summer.

 

But somehow I am thankful

for love;

how paralyzing it can be,

how intoxicating, and

 

I am thankful for coffee stains,

 

and the fact that I no longer

urge to scrub them

clean.