Why It's Important to Answer the Phone

The earth no longer screams to me as it did that time we were in love. Because this is where we know we are not to be, building with our hands to the earth. We shovel down until we catch the smell of dirt under the old innocence within our finger nails. I know that you're my best shot. At being what I say we were called to be. Mostly because you and I were always builders. Which was fine until this week, when I admitted that I need you more than I even need myself. Because You are my self. And you're restless, as the birds we watch crash into our dreams and seize with the tides. And I know I need to get you back to the water. I need to get me back to the earth. We need to grasp our hearts as they root into the shallow that we've found and move. Mostly to the north. Since I've seen the geese migrate and know they never stay away this long unless something's gotten lost, or they were wrong. But we're not wrong. We only know what it is to be electric. To move along.

Heart.

To know where you left your heart,
But remain forbidden
to run to it, beating,
and return it to its home--
is perhaps the greatest of all inhumanity.

Crane.

plastic selves and the insides
of broken knees,
staring into neighbors'
mirrors i blame my emotional
issues on you and waterfalls:
if it weren't for both,
my cheeks wouldn't be wet.


number two erasers and
pencil wood between my teeth,
i calligraphy some Mozart
and Eliot i left at the other house
onto the ends of my words,
hoping for a little more grace
than i've always got:
half to impress You,
and whole to let Us breathe.

empty pavements and dimming
headlights,we go to bed when
we're awake, and awake when
we're tired, promising one day:
it will be better.
one day, it will all be Good.
because all of this feels like a dream
i've had, but can never remember,
and Yours is the only face
i want to hold at night.

Mystery.

Mystery rides her waves up the sidewalk
and her stilts down the hall,
catching fireflies just to taste the release
of letting them go.
she dances with the cat,
is the cat, kitten, purring
inside the lawn mower at the hand of your father,
inside your hands,
your father.
Mother resting on a mattress in the room,
unmoving only resting, dreaming,
exhaustion,
we're all exhaustion
and burnt life cycles,
condensed cans,
routine-by products.
Love at the next door,
yearned-gravitated past months,
glints, light, move 17 months
forward, back,
"but it's ok, because it tastes as good the second time."
I am a broken magnifier,
clocks smashed, hurried to keep the lawn mower, mowing,
buzz to keep the mama sleeping,
breathe to keep the lover, loving.
Stop.
Again.
Stop.
Again.
Stop.
Again.

Snap.

Now I am the mystery.
Yet still, I cannot tell how I keep you together and all alive.

there's something about
the way a cat's whiskers
brush the back of my neck
that reminds me of
honeysuckle mornings and your arms.

note to self:
tracy chapman's voice,
will always get my soul.
we will destroy ourselves if we don't agree.

i heard once that if
you couldn't hear my heartbeat,
it meant i was too far.

now--
i realize if i can't hear yours,
feel yours, breathe to the tone of yours,
there is no rest.
little life.
little light.

i guess it is as death cab says---
i need you so much closer.
than down the street.