She Ain’t Going Out Like That

The radio
starts playing
a song about
the farmers
daughter.

I laugh and
it brings forth
your ghost
(you always
loved the way
I laughed).

I wonder
out loud
where you
have been
and why
you are
here now.

Why I am
still listening
to country
music after
all this time.

You were first.
You’ll never be
anyone else
and no one else
could ever take
your place.

The radio
starts playing
a song about
that red dress.

And I laugh.
Sing along.
~3/4/15
_____
My father is still mad at me, 17 years later, for getting my mother into country music thanks to the boy I was dating. A habit I still haven’t broken. I don’t know why. It’s almost every time a song comes on that I think of him, lately. Why would a person want that? Absence does make the heart grow fonder. It’s been long enough now that I just think of him in the good moments. Thank him silently for the foundation he built (I reserve a little vinegar for the bad bits, don’t get me wrong. I’m a poet, after all).

He had his faults but he knew how to make me feel like the only woman in the world. That’s saying something. And worth writing down. Not for him, but for me. To know that I’m worthy of that, even now.

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Waiting

I feel this day
completely

from the eyes
not well rested

to the head
aching from pressure

to the feet
too worn as always

But something more

This day feels taut

the air ripe
with anticipation

time skipping and
jumping like a
rheumatic heart

scarred and
faulty and
waiting

always waiting

for the next
light of
day.
~3/3/15

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Puzzling

I found
one of our
last love letters.

I laughed
at reading it.
At my obvious
distrust of you.
My complete
lack of faith
in the longevity
of a love that

burned so
bright so
fast so
eerily.

In its pages
I found myself.

But I put it
away again
half smiling.

Wondering whether you
still have its companion
tucked away somewhere
and what you would find
between its lines now.
~3/2/15

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Maybe Too

Subtle.

God I hope so.

Legs crossed
tilted toward

Head bowed
intently listening.

The easiest trick
in this book is
the ability to
make it all
about you.

Gravity shifts
when I take
the time to look
at you through
veiled eyelids.

Subtle.

God I hope so.
~3/2/15

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(B)

Squish letters together
then shove people into
corresponding boxes
to reflect those letters to
keep them accounted for.

Am I getting that right?

Just so
you know
I don’t need
a descriptor
to explain
to myself
who
or
how
I love
in this world.

We do that
for you.

So that you
feel better.

So that you
can attempt
to define
what you
think I am
so that you
can sleep
better at
night.

I have loved hard
and I have loved
wrong and I have
loved badly but
I have loved just
the same as you.

I take comfort
only in the fact
that you have a
box of your own.

We’re just too kind
to break the news.
~2/27/15
_____

This is of course not entirely accurate because there are many people in the LGBTQIA spectrum who very much need and appreciate the community within their corresponding letter(s). I’m not trying to take anything away from that. I’m just saying that I feel like I walk around all day with a (B) behind my name, and I don’t need it to know who I am.

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Asymmetry

In an effort
to tame my
uncharacteristically
large mane today
my fingers brushed
the bumpy callus
my right temple became
post-neurosurgery.

It never ceases
to amaze me
how easily
I can forget
the state I’m in.

I remember thinking
nothing was ever
going to make any
sense again.

That there was
no way I would
ever recognize the
face staring back
from the mirror.

I was always
going to be
broken
swollen
scarred.

For a girl who
never felt whole
in the first place
it’s amazing what
titanium can do
once you add it
and it’s calloused.
~2/25/15
_____
Hey now, it’s been too long since we’ve had a brain surgery poem, don’t you think? I think so.

Good hair day today. Very exciting stuff. Then bam, it’s like “What’s that bump…” Oh, I remember.

THE MOST IMPORTANT MOMENT OF YOUR LIFE WILL SOMEDAY JUST BE ANOTHER MOMENT. HOLD ON.

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