Monday, February 16, 2015

love is a verb

twenty eleven

I knew I shouldn't have divulged like that.

So early, in the dark... With the lights out, his facial expression was concealed (if he even had one).

I love you. I said, though I couldn't be sure it was true. He just felt so big to me. Like someone who could finish what he started. Like someone whose arms fit right around my damage, my weary, my hope.

Before that, all he had ever mustered up to say was I think I'm falling for you after three or four too many drinks. Since the first night we met, it was no secret that I don't play hard to get. I was there for the taking. But instead I found myself giving (against my therapist's advice).

He didn't respond right away (he never does). But at least he held my hand through the night.

twenty fifteen

No one has ever asked for the privilege like that.

As if this were our first time and he wasn't sure if I might regret it in the morning. Tonight, it is my expression that is hidden.

May I make love to you? Plain words, but disarmingly sincere. He whispered in a voice very new to me. To be honest, the phrase make love solicits a somewhat hostile disfavorIt sounds trite. And it reminds me of New Year's night years ago when my sister was a baby and my step-dad insisted on making love to my mother in a hotel room so small I could feel their breath from the adjacent double bed. So, I guess that means I much prefer to fuck. Perhaps because my ex husband treated me like a B-side porn star. Perhaps because then, at least I know exactly what currency with which to bargain. Perhaps because I don't know the difference between a good love and a good fuck (giving it, getting it, wanting it).

A barely audible yes.

Saturday, January 10, 2015

in the first degree

first glance
first kiss
first touch
first chance

Where does love go if it does not die?
If it never fizzles, fractures, or morphs into something ugly?
If it is not burned at the stake or strangled empty of all its good intentions?
If two people choose to walk away from a worthy thing because love is not enough?

Where does love go when we are simply…

Will my lost love be shunted into a bank of unclaimed property, collecting dust until something triggers memory of its existence?
Will my saved love burn holes in my pockets and trickle out the bottoms until I have nothing left to give?
Or will I give it away too freely to underserving beneficiaries, uneducated of its value?
Will my quiet love find peace in another heart, in another town?
Will I bury it within my body, only until I explode with the madness of missed possibility?
Will I rest it on a shelf, high above arms reach, so that I can see but cannot touch?
(Please, God) Will this love fade into something more tolerable?
Or will it become impossible to say his name without resentment?

I am quite sure that love like this cannot die of natural causes.

No, love like this must be murdered. 

Monday, December 22, 2014


It's my first day at work and this young girl is an eager stranger
yet something unnerving clouds our introduction and all I can remember is her mouth.

Her mouth with the corners that turn down in a way that makes my stomach sour
even though she has a pretty smile.

A pretty smile, with full lips and straight, white teeth, unaware that its particular phenotype only reminds me of another mouth on another girl.

Another girl who used to be my friend with another mouth that used to laugh with me
and share wine and secrets and shadows.

Shadows now hang low over my brow as I try and focus on her questions
though all I hear is the blurred sound of air pushed through that mouth.

That mouth of a stranger that makes me want to slap her for being such a hypocrite
with the laughing and the wine and the secrets.

The secrets that she didn't tell with her mouth turned down were actually the most telling
...but this young girl is just an eager intern and it is only my first day at work.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Mr. Sandman

but for a thin, deceitful fraction of time, in the disconcerting wake between the things you want and the things you have, I believed he was there, lying in bed with me

wake up

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Or Bust

The elephant in the room has walked out. 

I've been writing this blog for about a year and a half now. On quiet afternoons, I like to flip back through the pages and see how the manuscript changed. How my own vision has progressed. What stories are still buried in drafts (or, worse, in memories). If you've read closely, you may have guessed that my prose of past and present are wholly intertwined; nevertheless, these bits are absolutely true as lived except for chronology. When it comes to the ghosts of men haunting these walls, there was S.B. (who could not be encouraged to speak the truth), there were "the in-betweens" - including Mike (who now finds it best to leave my messages unanswered) and my beautiful French chef (for whom stories are few but cloaked in mystery), and there is Jack. Humble, sweet Jack (with whom my heart is currently entangled in an impossible situation).

So, if you happen to stumble upon this house routinely, then you might soon find stories of "the afters" too. (Those are yet to be made.) My only hope is that I am not stuck in a loop already lived.

I'm done with the Midwest, for now.
Heading back to Texas.

Please please please, just help me untangle.