musings

where my heart sits

my heart sits somewhere between 

freshly tilled garden soil

and the sweet scent of alfalfa after the rains.

it sits in that space between your thigh and your knee

where you’d let me sit and steer the tractor.

though i’d almost run us into fences

and trees, and cows,

you’d let me drive.

you taught me to drive a car with a similar patience.

it sits beside you, daddy,

snapping green beans on the porch swing at dusk,

watching the sun collect its retirement,

shucking corn and squealing, throwing worm shit at each other,

though you’d never call it shit.

my heart sits in the way you humored me

when i wanted to name each and every one of your cows.

you even tried to learn their names,

which wasn’t really fair because i think i may have changed them daily.

you still tried.

remember how you let me counsel

my beloved bovines before you sold them off to slaughter?

it must come as no surprise to you that i am now a vegan.

speaking of this, i love that you humor my veganism,

just like you humored

my colony of imaginary friends,

my twelve broken bones,

and the painting of your old truck pink.

you let me, and you even borrowed it sometimes.

my heart sits on the petals of your rosebushes,

those blooming flowerbeds that only exist

because of the way i screamed

when you mowed over

my lovely little weeds with such violence.

you took up landscaping to pay restitution for your wrongs—

and to this day, your roses are still the envy of the neighbors.

it sits in the flowers you still send me every birthday

just to remind me that i am special.

you taught me early that a good man should

wish to give beauty without expectation.

daddy, i could never tell you this

but when i was date raped at sixteen 

over a dozen cheap roses and his resulting sense of entitlement, 

it’s silly, but…

thinking of you and the bouquets, the baby breath, the daisies,

it gave me the strength to scream, 

louder than the day you destroyed my dandelions

it gave me the strength to fight, to heal, to still know to this day

that i did not deserve it.

i will always hate Valentine’s Day and

receiving flowers from any man but you,

but please— never, ever, stop sending them.

my heart sits in the

the plush pew of every sanctuary

of every piano contest and recital where you sat, 

in the tulle of every dress, in the pride of every curtsy,

but also in the splintering bleachers of every basketball game you attended 

just to watch me warm the bench.

you were there anyway, daddy

through wins and losses, victories and defeats, and

it’s taught me the meaning of faithfulness.

my heart sits somewhere in between

the sizzle of Sunday morning pancakes and

in that spark you still get in your eyes when you look at my mama.

it used to make me sick when you two would kiss each other 

in the kitchen when you got off work,

but now i understand why you wanted us to see it.

it is the main reason i still believe in lasting love

and the value of marriage.

my heart sits somewhere in between 

rusty green handlebars and a greasy, squeaky chain.

daddy, you were the first to believe that 

i really could ride a bicycle from one coast to the other;

you thought it was a grand idea.

in fact, you loaned me one of yours.

when i felt shame as i returned it all weathered and aged, 

you just laughed, said it “gave it character”

then you gave it to me for my birthday.

i named it Oscar and you still call it that.

this heart, it sits loosely among the pages of

highlighted road maps and blog posts from that trip.

you clumsily bound them together for me as a Christmas gift

you knew i wanted to write a book, and you thought it’d make it easier.

it will; and the sincerity in your eyes

told me that you knew i’ll actually write it someday.

it told me you’ll actually read it, cover to cover, in one sitting.

know that you’ll be the first to receive a copy.

my heart sits somewhere in between

your shoulder blade and my forehead, 

soaked with the salt of your sweat and my tears in that embrace

after you ran that race, our race, so victoriously.

you scrawled my name on a sign with pride,

told me you ran every step in my honor.

when i stood there, just unraveling at the finish line,

it was the first and only time i’ve seen you cry.

as we held each other in the rain,

your arms pardoned my need to feel failure.

this heart, it sits in the way you sat in that

dark room with me late Sunday night

and let me clasp your hand through surgery, knuckles white

there was so much blood, but you didn’t flinch.

when i felt like a frail little child’s paper doll

crying there, just lying there hooked up to a labyrinth of machines, 

you whispered how tough you thought i was.

i needed that, and you knew.

we both share that need.

daddy, though i know at times i’ve broken your heart

in that unique way only daughters can do, 

please know that i am trying.

know that i will never stop trying. 

i am trying to reconcile the way you raised me 

with the experiences that have shaped me, and

it’s hard. 

but through it all, i am perpetually guided by

your light, your love, and your patience.

know that my heart will always sit here with yours, 

sewn within the threads of this same cloth from which we are cut.

dear you,

you’re a gem

and i wish you could know it.

i wish my affections for you,

my admirations of you,

could be mirrored

in that cruel mind of yours,

crushing its darkest of tactics, 

all clenched fist

and white-knuckled

you are treasure, 

an unadulterated gift and

you don’t have to believe me, 

but while all you see rough, 

I see diamond,

and your dimensions 

reach further than you think,

glimmer in the sun

like the purest of stars

luminescent enough

to manifest the

daylight

you invaded my daylight,

twice

eclipsed me in shadows,

but oh, how you glowed.

you were glowing so gloriously

that Saturday

over coffee and hummus.

one. 

we unearthed

childhood confessions

and your vast repertoire of 

red panda knowledge,

revealed our mutual affections for C.S. Lewis

and trippy cinematography 

i love that we unknowingly 

wore each other’s favorite colors

as the rain began to dance, 

we waltzed with it in language

and no desire to move elsewhere

it smelled too damn sweet

you smelled too damn sweet

i cannot shake it from my senses

two.

you kissed my intellect

before you kissed my lips,

and nose, and forehead

on that rooftop,

and our souls spoke

before we whispered

sweet, breathy somethings in ears.

and we laughed,

oh, how we laughed

cheek to cheek

knee to knee

beneath a makeshift sleeping bag tent

built to shield the harshest of winds

built to shield the harsh reality 

of you

leaving as abruptly 

as you came

i began to miss you

even while our bodies

were still pressed together

in that empty parking lot 

whilst still in the twilight

fingers, still intertwined

and when we let go with the dawn,

it felt sinful

come back to me,

all gem-like and starry-eyed…

all glowy in your glory

like meteor showers and May sunshine

March was lovely 

because you touched it

I’d rather be a quilt.

perturbed by the patterns

that fashion fabric,

I’d rather be a quilt.

less perfect.

home-spun,

heart-sung.

quilts weave stories

make sense from experience

wholeness from anecdotes

chords from dissonant notes

meaning from incongruency

the contrast is everything

there is

no mind for matching

the juxtaposition, random

you cannot create parallels

or easy explanations

quilts, they unfold

undecided autobiographies

only funerals 

determine denouements

…in as many versions

as 

teary-eyed faces…

I hope you’ll make sense of mine—

I hope you’ll critique it

gently

actually,

I hope you’ll 

wrap your lap

in it as you 

write your own,

weave your own

with 

quill pens and sewing needles.

scapegoats

there is

some strange comfort

in the recklessness

an air of liberation

in the carelessness

of leaving engine running

in the roughest part of town

implying

take this if you need it

there are

layers of lovely

in the disheveled

pages of pretty

in the apathy

of unkempt mane, lipstick smeared

on teeth

that build a gaping smile

implying

mock this if you need to

there’s freedom found

when you’d

be that scapegoat

on both accounts.

a honeybee hovers

a honeybee hovers

I hate when shit hovers

sting me silly

or leave me numb

your ambivalence, dumb

shoot serum 

into this smooth, sad skin

or fly elsewhere

make. up. your. mind.

I won’t be bothered by these

scare tactics

-so-

commission your yellow furred comrades

summon your black-striped soldiers

find another girl

settled between two firs

who is more reverent

of your potent sting,

more deserving 

of your final deed

-with-

lungs that’d shriek louder

a soul that’d scream more

I’d just 

lie listless

in the grass

‘til it passed

my tears are the toughest of crowds.

punctuation

.

i asked for a period.

sought some sort of closure

but in truth,

sought exclamation!

i would’ve probably

even

accepted a comma,

if you’d scrawled it with those

sea eyes.

at least it’d signify

a pause in your logic.

but these symbols—

they were still too taxing

to ask of a pen

only wielding ellipses

…

those three dots

…

are tattooed on

my rib cage

engraved in a structure

you’ll never climb

you haven’t the 

grip for this

ladder

…

cigarette correspondence

cigarettes are sisters, sleeping

two lines, one box, one match

patient, ‘til invited

dormant, ‘til ignited

-sacrificially-

they mail letters down 

throat,

tar-sealed.

smoke-curled sonnets,

lung limericks.

meters, consistent

patterns, persistent 

quite

quiet like cancer

perfect symbiosis

you found me,

innocently.

I was

fixated on twilight flowerpots,

sifting through soil of shallow thoughts

with a plastic spoon,

two broken arms,

and a match—

[this was not your fault]

my roots did not run as deep

as they may have seemed,

unearthed from former dwellings,

fields of golden wheat,

seas of  barley, sweet.

once a farmer,

now sharecropping weeds

[I was Ruth, 

and you were Boaz]

I followed you

with tunnel vision,

warped kaleidoscope precision,

lines blurred,

truths obscured.

tie the scarf around my eyes,

keep me in the dark.

it’s warmer here.

[your ambiguity

is a cloak draped

across my shoulders]

it is too late,

yet I cup my fingers around the

cultivation I can control.

that shallow soil in my soul—

dangerously agreeable,

recklessly amiable—

foliage without boundaries.

[attaching to anything

that will have me]

my ivy thrives upon

your fragile walls

in perfect symbiosis,

parasitic persistence.

you water me once a week,

yet still I wait.

[I wither until you come]

perhaps I should not have

posed such an inquiry—

it was not my place.

we both know I’m

climbing towards rooftops

I’ll never reach—

landings standing linguistically,

ledges full of cracked flowerpots.

[rooftops that exist in promise,

not proximity]

lamps with secrets

When you fly blind into

a dimly lit labyrinth 

of rosebushes,

once demure,

now allured,

you find your

garments torn,

dismissing thorns

as rowdy house guests

wearing out their welcomes

in bleeding fingertip graffiti

spilling upon the snow.

[the roses too understand

the aches and pains

of pruning]

you find that the petals distract you,

their hues, they attract you,

like junebugs to blazes,

as moths drawn to mazes

of lamps with secrets

refusing to be uttered

until you’re close enough

to catch fire.

only through tantalizing whispers

do you learn you’ve been deceived.

they say the smoke follows

beauty.

you’ve found that it melts it.

on broken bones and beauty

i once learned at a tender age of toddlerhood

that any attempts to catch myself

will only lead to broken bones.

old photographs will tell you that

the casts were always pink—

they had to be.

…hot pink with Sharpie hieroglyphs

scrawled sloppily by my family—

i didn’t have many friends then.

at three, i reached for the

temptingly blooming wildflowers

as my father’s toes reached for the

gas pedal.

i was grasping for beauty—

that early.

i tumbled from the

bed of his truck

like a hay bale,

and the cows grazing amongst

that placid pasture

circled around me as such.

i broke my arm that day.

i still remember

the deafening sound of its cracking,

the deafening sound of its snapping,

beneath the blankets

of my plump baby skin.

i didn’t cry.

my Death Valley eyes

stared squarely

into the pupils of pain

with a solemn courage

i’ve yet to muster since.

my mama told me that it was

in.this.moment.

that she first fell in love

with my storytelling.

i unraveled the spool of events

to the doctors

with the innocence of Cummings

and the detail of Wolff;

and when I finished, there was

no space for questions,

no space for speculation,

no such space for suspicion.

now twenty years have passed

and I have lost something—

and not just my love for pink.

i’ve grown tainted,

jaded,

and lost some faith,

but I’ve also lost my need to be strong without exception.

though am still trying to catch myself…

…and still breaking,

—i have learned a few things—

i have finally learned that

these Atlas hands are too fragile

to cradle my earth.

i finally understand that

these frail fingers are too breakable

to catch anyone with grace.

and next time I fall,

I will fall with open arms,

hands outstretched

to the sky

once again grasping—

for Beauty.