Immortality II

I have written so much fucking poetry about you.
One day you'll find my name up on a shelf
and pull the volume down to see
a mirror there, inside. And I hope that then
you'll shudder, and look around cautiously,
wondering if anyone had seen your face when you
walked in, and now knew who you really were.

Realization on a Unitarian Pew; on the First Day of Advent

I used to think the empty space beside me in this Sunday pew
was a you-sized silence, meant for you, my arm around your shoulders -
but I have time and time again had to remind myself that
it's not you here, but an empty space, a space much bigger
than you would have allowed yourself to be,
an empty space as big as the future and of all the thousand
bodies and of minds that could fit in this place,
my arm around the shoulders of The Universe,
and my texts and words are all that sit here beside me
in the pages of my journals, and so I listen to the voices
seated by myself, that are myself, and learn to wrap my arms
around and hold my heart to fill the empty space enough
with me and all my silence and make room
for all the future minds and bodies that will pass through,
and maybe one day, finally settle himself here,
beside me.

30/30

This was the first time I'd ever heard of the 30/30,
Thirty poems written within thirty days,
and I laughed quietly to myself,
knowing that, to me, it was more like 60/30,
although I'd rather call them battle scars, than poems.

The White Hat

I found her white hat at the top of my grandmother's coat closet
flung, misguided, hidden, atop the other things and ornaments
of loss her husband's death had also left behind.
I remember walking her down the aisle beneath that hat,
to the tune of a violin playing "To Love You More."
I cried as I held her, after she lit my family's,
my legacy's candle, letting go to help her find her seat,
her eyes crinkling with pride at the future she now saw
reflected in my own. Earlier we'd taken family photos
and I remember those same eyes finding steely resolve,
after the initial horror at the prospect of taking a picture
with the whole family, alongside my father,
and she determined to push herself, her white hat,
and her smile into the frame.
Later they showed me pictures in our album
captured of the two of us, talking as she sat out on a bench
in the foyer, telling me how much she loved me,
as I held her, hat and all.
We cried then, and I'm crying now, as I see that hat again,
perched lonely on the dust of settling memories,
wondering where it was and how it could have been forgotten,
knowing we couldn't find it when she'd wanted it
that second and last time, to match the purple outfit she had
worn to my wedding, the one in which they dressed her,
the hat and gown in which she wished her body to be burned.

After the Open Mic

I just sat down and started five poems,
gazing back at their half-empty spaces
aching to be filled - wondering if I'll
be back to give them more of myself
and my words.
It's like a sickness, really,
an illness that won't go away,
but that shows itself at all the most
impossibly awkward moments.
It's like the moment you first meet
your in-laws, and they ask you how
you like the food, and you vomit it up
in front of them, or the time you're making
love to the one you know is your soulmate
and someone else's name escapes your lips.
I suppose it would be like that.
Those are not experiences I've had,
but I can imagine they're rather like my own,
carrying my journal like a barf-bag,
or my pen, my epinephrine,
to catch, to stave off, to push back, to give in,
to cradle, to hold all of the loose and bile-soaked
drippings the dribble from my proverbial mouth
and trickle down my arm into the puddles
of letters I'll scoot together and chase around
on the white space of these pages,
excusing myself from society
to lock myself in the toilet for hours while I try
to get it all out and wipe the dirt from my face
and heart, hammering my head against
my words to piece myself together inside them,
tracing and retracing my past and all my
loaded thoughts, while my present and my future
sit out on the sofa, waiting for me to emerge
and interact with them again, perhaps to
down another couple drinks until
I can't keep those down, either,
and the cycle begins again,
and I ask my future on the way,
rushing back to the bathroom to spill even more,
to finish these five poems before another wave will hit,
if this is hell, or if there is an end to this,
the constantly asking questions on these pages,
and he looks at me, caressing with his eyes,
and says, my darling, 
you're immortal now.

On being sick in bed II

You would enter the room
and my blood pressure would drop,
even with the pulse that raced each
time you touched me with those eyes.
And even if only selfishly, I long
for that calming balm again,
the salve to spread over the wounds
your own hands and words had wrought,
I know that all the anger, hurt, and bitterness would
melt from me like candle wax,
if you were to walk inside my door
and merely ask how I was feeling.

On being sick in bed

It's being sick in bed
that makes one feel the most lonely,
where the last time, before, your
hands and eyes and gentle care
would cover like a coverlet,
when warmth and "anything you need?"
was brought within range of my arms,
including you.
I'm not sure what it is about aches and pains,
The can't-get-out-of-bed, uncomfortable kinds,
that bring back memories of softer,
loving times,
but one always wishes the buttons on those
memories wouldn't be pressed,
and that the aching, longing feeling
in my warm and shivery body
wouldn't be matched or outrun by
the aching, longing feeling
of my sad and shivery heart.