Weight

I feel the weight of loving you often enough

to want to grow wings. 

My memory is the main culprit, 

and it strikes without fair warning.

Yesterday, it was the night you moved your leg

to the center underneath the booth, all sly, 

like I wouldn’t notice you’d made it impossible 

for us not to touch, and how you held my gaze 

when our ankles kissed.

Today, it was definitely the way you pecked my cheek

before you ran to catch the train, 

glanced into my eyes and dashed across the street.

I hadn’t even thought you would kiss me goodbye.

Right now, it’s 5 am, and I know I can call someone

and he will answer, and I’ll tell him I’m feeling lonely,

and he will ask me what kind of lonely I’m feeling.

And I’ll want to tell him - the kind of lonely that exists as 

a cannonball in my stomach, rolling about each time I move.

The kind of lonely that can blast an gaping hole through the core of me,

the kind of lonely that’s the round black heaviness of your absence.

But I’ll just say what’s true enough without the honesty;

-oh, that sort of late-night lonely after a long day

when I just want a body beside me so listening to
the sound of their breathing feels like falling
asleep in a car, rushing me forward into 

places I won’t remember when I wake up.

poem - April 2012

The House on Main Street

Everything is muted here,

but muffled, not drab.

The red carpet underfoot

is softer than it looks.

The couch under my hands

feels rough and worn,

beaten by dogs' paws,

and the same people

sitting in the same old place.

The television: off-color, like

a photograph taken with a filter

knocked off-kilter.

But my words and rhymes

are too heavy here.

What lives –

simple, witty conversation,

jokes and sarcastic lashes,

love - poured

with your glass of beer.

The dog in my lap nodding off, and you -

reciting lines of films seen much too often,

laughing among faces known so well.

There are lighthouses painted

where the walls and ceiling kiss,

their imagined light shining,

leading me to this place,

next to you.

The wet tongue of a terrier on my face,

and the scent of gin on your mother's breath

as she smiles, chuckles,

hugs me to her, the dog brought along,

everything equal in her embrace.

All of this feels just like home.

poem - January 2011

Great Big Plans

I have a map
covered
with great big plans,
and half of them
probably won't
ever
get a pin
through their center.

There's so much
that hurts
in this world,
like the sound
of your tires
leaving,

but sometimes
it's a beautiful,
stunning
hurt

like the
bright fire
of your eyes
locked on mine.

Sometimes
I love you so much
that it all doesn't matter,
nothing but the wish
to be everywhere
with you.

If you asked me
what I'm afraid of,
it's that.

If you asked me
my favorite thing
about the world,
it's that.

poem - September 2012

Combination

Teach me surrender & 

teach me how to pick the lock.

Teach me open love.

Haiku - September 2012

Morning

you curled around me -
shield from the unwelcome dawn.
you alone are home.

haiku - August 2012