dry

I am made of stone

I tapped myself once, twice, but no water came

God loves Moses more than me

I want to weep long and mournful sobs

But my body is dry

Nothing flows through me now

I am an empty pipe

A shallow well

I’m as barren as Sarai

And without laughter

I’ve made you as mute as Zachariah

But nothing was ever born between us

I am the missing tide

My water has turned to salt

I am the pillar that looks back

Wondering if anything can be salvaged

Hoping someone might have been saved

Furrowed brow, far away eyes

Stomach cramping, lonely quaking

I thirst.

Why have you forsaken me?

I know my hands are scarred and bleeding

Bruised by the beating intended for you

Because of love I carry my splintered wood

And keep walking on this arid earth

the artist

If what you touch falls to pieces

And sends you crumbling to the floor

These hands will make you a mosaic

And pave it on tomorrow’s floor

If tomorrow’s darkness finds you

And daunting clouds swell black and blue

These hands will color you a sunrise

Wake you to sky that’s changed her hue

If her hue lacks a complexion

And you find it pale grey and white

These hands will sketch for you charcoal wings

To let your hopeful dreams take flight

If your dreams turn into nightmares

And your limbs quake in wakeful fear

These hands will sculpt you a fantasy

To take you far away from here

If fantasy doesn’t keep you

And you hunger for food that’s real

These hands will prepare you a banquet

Cuisine that you can taste and feel

If you tire of the same fare

And the artist whose lost her muse

These hands will craft for you a vessel

A ship I know that you can use

If you find your way back to me

Come dipped in yellow blue and red

I’ll have tired of my studio

I’d rather paint with you instead

muse

Last night I became Polyhymnia

Solemn, eloquent, and thoughtful

Terpsichore danced to Calliope’s song

Our depth of hope was awful

I’d came to watch your tragedy

Words for my saline scroll

Erato sat beside me

A silent pain untold

We searched eagerly for Melpomene

Our fingers were entwined

I took notice of her cothurnus

And knew what we would find

The tears flowed freely – fearful blue

Her melancholy heavy

The unexpected dagger came

I’d hoped you’d have been ready

Your head rolled back, your tongue went numb

The poison suffered long

I had no time to stop her

Clio told me I was wrong

You lay there lifeless, stiff, and still

I longed only for the end

But just before the closing song

Thalia reared her head

She skipped across the forlorn stage

Her laughter out of place

She winked at old Urania

And put a smile on your face

Euterpe and I embraced with joy

I had to catch my breath

All along it’d been a comedy

We thought we’d known the stench of death

cracked

“you were wonderful,” she murmured as she fingered the soft curling hairs on his chest. he smiled. though his eyes were still heavy with sleep, he opened them enough to glimpse the pink of her flushed cheeks in the morning light. they always looked like roses, glistened with dew, waiting to be picked . there was a small indentation - like an outline of a bed sheet just under her ear - she had slept well.

he sighed and groaned playfully as he heaved the rumpled comforter from his warm body and stretched his legs. he reached for the shade and invited the sunshine into the room as he  blandly scanned the front yard. he had left the car door slightly cracked. he grinned and remembered the excitement from the night before. he hadn’t been thinking straight. he caught her shapely body out of the corner of his eye. she was curled up under the covers. she had fallen back asleep. he could watch the noiseless movement of her sighing chest all day long . his mouth was both sticky and dry. he reached for the forgotten glass of Pinot Noir on the bedside table.

“you were wonderful!” she yelled, leaning over the edge of the banister so that her feet barely touched the floor. her hands were waving with excitement as she hurdled down the front steps to greet him. The old Volvo heaved from the cracked pavement and onto the gravel driveway. she could hear him playing through the outworn speakers - she wasn’t sure how, but she could always tell when it was him - something about the music sounded different. even the happiest of songs took on a mournful lament when he played them. he turned off the radio, stalled the car and gave her a sheepish grin as he opened the door. they kissed, and he held her close. she tucked her nose under his stubbly chin and breathed in the sweet scent of his fading aftershave. they took each other by the hand. his mind was racing, but his grip remained steady. she led him inside.

“you were wonderful.” she said with the kind of confidence that seems inherent to the Queen’s English accent. she was born in Bath, and he couldn’t help but think that that’s exactly where he wanted to be - a steaming tub, a glass of Pinot Noir, and someone’s gentle hands caressing his face. she lingered slightly longer than she should have. he was in no mood for a chinwag; he just wanted to go home. he gave her a grateful nod, and let the weariness in his eyes catch her hopeful gaze. she smiled and sauntered on. he used the moment of solitude to nestle his french horn into its worn and cracked case. he checked his watch, and snuck out the back door of the concert hall.

“you were wonderful,” he said, gravely. but the words were cold, as though someone else had spoken them. the thought sent shivers down his spine. his cheeks were blushed red from the chilly winter breeze rushing across his face. his eyes were bloodshot from the tear sodden night. perhaps it was cliche, but he no longer cared. he unfastened his hands from the long-stemmed rose and let it fall onto the polished casket. he couldn’t stay for the service. he couldn’t stand in this spot a moment longer. his world was shattered, and he felt cracked like a broken mirror - the pieces of his life fragmented - each worthless shard reflecting the same image back at him:

her, her, her, her, her

he wept.
nothing made sense anymore.

chipped

empty glass, a chipped mug.
i told you the truth, but it was far too late.
i missed that opportunity

late nights, soft hands.
i never felt that way before and told no one.
i let you go.

i created something beautiful and then ripped it apart.
it reminded me of you.
i wanted to forget.

you lied to me.
i told you i forgave you.
i lied and i left.

you asked if i was dating anyone.
i told you i wasn’t.
you paused.
you knew.
i changed the subject.
you told me you loved me anyway.

you kissed my cheek and asked if i was okay.
i faked a smile.
i still don’t know if you believed me.

i told you it was over.
you took me at my word.
you asked if we could make
things work.
i cried the hardest i’d ever cried with anyone.
we haven’t really
talked since.

you wrote, “am i really that frightening?”
i never wrote you back.

we were too much alike.
sometimes the silence was too loud .

you gave up.
I will never forget that.
I won't trust you again.
i love you.

these are the remnants of the ones i loved;
the ones i still do;
the ones i always will;
the ones i never will again.

i think about them sometimes, but today, i think mostly of you.
traces of juice in your glass; leftover crumbs on a plate.
so much to say but my words held no meaning.

you missed that opportunity.

missed me

“you missed me, you missed me, now you gotta kiss me ”

i used to say these words as a kid; scuffed knees, grass-stained jeans, playing tag with my brother and cousins on the lush green carpet of grandmother's front lawn. no one ever did it - kissed me, i mean. it was just something we said. it was an insult; a taunt; something meant to make the other's blood boil. It was meant to humiliate, to playfully disgust .

the phrase danced through my head as i nodded off to sleep. I woke up wondering where it came from. I spent hours mindlessly clicking on links over the internet, but i couldn’t find any traces or leads regarding it’s origins. But i wouldn’t say the search was in vain. I found one tiny gem that interests me - the etymology of the word “miss.” it comes from prehistoric Germanic languages, from the root that means “wrongly” or “amiss.” In other words, “miss”= something’s not quite right. now that i’m older, “missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me,” means something else all together. it’s a mixture of hope and fear stitched clumsily together on my patchwork heart. if it’s still a taunt, it’s only one to myself - a taunt that more often comes out like an unrequited prayer .

to miss her, is to say that something doesn’t seem quite right without her here - it’s like walking into your bedroom that first trip back home after being away at college, only to realize that a younger sibling stormed your haven. It’s like listening to on old song on the radio and getting the words wrong. it’s like eating your favorite meal when you have a cold .

Something’s missing.

you say it to yourself - or perhaps, you say it to someone else .


when i found the etymology of the word “miss,” i couldn’t help but think of the etymology of the word, “sin,” which finds it’s roots in archery lingo - to sin is “to miss the mark.” In other words, “sin” = something’s not quite right.

for someone who’s had a long hard history of ignoring her emotions, it’s easy for me to conjoin the too: missing someone and sinning. something inside of me says, “you don’t REALLY miss her - you’re too strong for that.” but i’ve slowly been learning to see through the thin veil of self-sufficiency. “maybe i do,” i tell the voice. “maybe you don’t know what strong really is.”

for me, missing someone feels a bit like being cornered in a boxing ring. I can just barely make out the two red gloves peering at me through my swollen black-and-blue eyelids. One glove comes from her, and one comes from God. I’m already battered. I’m bruised from the struggle. my eyes are stinging from the saline-sweat concoction my body’s producing to soften the blows. each pang of “missing” hits me hard like an unexpected backhand. “Was that her, or God?” I wonder through the dizzying haze. both gloves are vying for my attention. one strikes and the other waits her turn - they dance to a rhythm I can’t seem to find.

I feel like i’m falling, but my legs have locked and hold me upright. i’m about to faint, but my blood is rushing, and I keep fighting anyway. there’s something about the rush that makes it all worth it. i know that after the fight, i’m going to be stronger and smarter than i was before. there’s something about missing someone that makes life harder and easier at the same-time. There’s a certain romance to it that’s easy because you’re all alone and the other person isn’t there to mess up your mind’s-eye-perfect revelry. but there’s also something gnawing and carnal about missing - like the hunger of a missed-meal, or the hard pang of reality that hits when you just miss slamming into the car in front of you because you were checking a long-awaited text message. missing exists in two planes - the ethereal and the physical - no wonder i’m divided in myself when I feel it.

missing is the clandestine image of my day-to-day battle to live with myself - to exist inside myself and outside of it at once - to live for today, hope for tomorrow, and all the while remember the past. my skin and soul ache for someone to reach them all.

the last hit was hard. it knocked the wind out of me. but i’m still standing, fists flexed and eyes focused, ready for the next rally of punches. i smile, and taunt, “missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me .”

jump

I dream of the jump.

I am suspended - suspended between sky and water, between land and air, between death and life.

I

j      m   e
   u     p     d.

I can’t even remember the act, itself, but i do remember the edge - a keen awareness of its definition, its contours, its cracks, the softness of earth beneath my bare feet. I couldn’t see the bottom. I couldn’t let myself see the bottom - at the bottom is where my fears lay. But i could see the edge, and I focused on the edge until that too faded away and I was above the edge, above the bottom, above everything but myself. No, I was fully in myself.

My neck was rig
                           id with the pressure

of the

i
n
v
i
s
i
b
l
e

sky on my chest;
                my inability to breathe.
                                      I was holding in all life - life was             
                                                         suspended

I was full, I was


waiting...

My life was suspended, but time was not.

I
came
down

with a smash, with a splash, with weight I had forgotten I owned.

I came down in water and spit and blood and sting and the strange pleasure of having hovered over my fears - of having been suspended in a time and place where they could not reach me - where no one could reach me - no one but myself.

I swam back to the cliff, climbed up the rocks,
and I jumped again.

it is dark

it is dark.
the hallway creeks as my feet step, tentatively, on the floorboards.
it is dark.
i am alone in the house.
If not for the dog next door, and the beetles and the ants, i might be lonely.

but how could i be lonely with myself. together, me, and i - we have so much to dream about. i dream about what it would be like to go dancing in the rain tonight. i dream about what it would be like to climb the backyard tree and sing until i fall asleep in one of her branches.

i dream about what it would be like to live in a world that loves.

i’m left only to my dreams. tomorrow i will wake to a dreamless world until night falls once again,until the floor creaks once again, and my feet find their way in the darkness.

breathlessness

There are moments in life when tension grips my lungs, eyes widen, limbs quiver. my bodily self reacts to a stimulus. my senses are heightened. my heartbeat quickens. I am breathless.

The sight of a rainbow dodging a soft Irish rainfall. The herculean pressure of a towering cathedral. The sleep-induced shadows and ghostly glimpses of the midnight hour. The touch of my beloved’s hand. The kiss of her lips. The hold of her gaze. breathlessness.

This movement of the body touches the heart. It’s a place where carnality and spirituality exchange currencies; a gentleman’s agreement. The veil is lifted. The thin place revealed. my heart skips. The feelings pass as the clouds roll, the lights flicker on, her hand moves quietly to her own lap, her gaze returns to the pages of her book.

But don’t we long for breathlessness - for the feeling of dying slowly? A pleasurable pain; the flames of a fire that purify us and remind us that we are human; an invitation to experience our naked selves. Our desires are made manifest; our needs are revealed. We are exposed.

Breathlessness.

It reminds us that we are mortal. Without breath our bodies would die, but without moments of breathlessness our spirits dry up like the morning dew.

Breathlessness reminds us that we are alive - equally alive with the object of our desire. It is a pause that joins all things. As the oil painting forever captures a moment in time; these moments captivate us and capture us too. Arrested, our passions betray us to the jail rooms of Mother Nature, of the Boogey Man, of God, of the lover of our very selves.

“When you breathe I recall the power of trains” she wrote.

I feel it too. There is power in the breath that raises her chest as she falls asleep beside me. There is fear in my heart, mixed with awe. I breathe that same air I breathe her in and
out until I too am asleep.