10.20 - between jobs

five years have gone by since we last spoke, and now we are reuniting under the worst possible circumstances. you told me you wanted me there because i was one of the few people who really knew what was going on at home.

did i? i knew what it was like to feel her presence in the house, floating between rooms and standing just outside my peripheral. i knew how you couldn't talk about it most of the time - even to me. that was only sometimes, though. other days were spent full of creativity and thoughtfulness and joy. secretly, i was always jealous of your relationship.

the last time i talked to her, she had called trying to convince me to reach out to you again. i didn't do it. what she really wanted was the impossible, what she wasn't saying but was communicating telepathically - please be twelve years old again, safe and dorky under my roof. but i knew that having me there wouldn't make anything right. now, i sit and wonder when the last time i talk to you will be.

was it at the funeral? i have to know. but things like that are unknowable unless you're an old woman. i look back on our youth together and i see it all very cinematic. so let me write the final scene. fifty years from now, we bump into each other in an unfamiliar city where we are both traveling. we stop at a cafe to catch up, and i learn you've gotten everything you ever wanted.

7.3 - fourth of july

is it right for me to write about you,

reckless thrill-seeker,

white-blonde troublemaker?

chlorine and pixie sticks,

too cool for school,

adolescent butterflies.

at the end we were strangers.

i didn't know about the motorcycle,

or if you finished your ged.

i'm still sorry i broke up

with you over text, but we

were just kids then. childlike -

that's how i remember you.

running the concession stand,

giggling on the swing set,

the sun bleaching you into

a white-hot flame,

wild child to the end.

5.9 - Sestina for Salmon

Recently I learned about the life cycle

Of salmon. They hatch in riverbeds then migrate to salt water,

They then grow in the ocean before returning to fresh,

during which they travel and leap and struggle

For miles, ultimately hoping to mate but often dying

In the process. Salmon live on average for five years.

I imagine acquiring the taste for salt over the years

Then having to leave it behind. Are there salmon who oppose this cycle?

I suppose the refusal to adjust would end with them dying.

Their decaying flesh and scales carried through the water,

Acting as food for creatures enduring their own struggle.

A rotten meal that does not taste fresh.

I don’t think I would make a good salmon, fighting in fresh

Streams. For a pink salmon, it takes two years

To adjust to the change. It would take me twenty years of struggle

Before once again, I got used to the fresh river cycle.

Every night I would dream of the taste of salt water.

Every morning I would wake up thinking I was dying.

Nowadays I try not to take comfort in the thought of dying,

Instead, remembering things like getting to breathe air that is fresh,

Bathing until my skin turns pink in steaming bath water,

Watching my brothers grow into fine young men over the years,

Finding a bike in the garage and realizing I didn’t forget how to cycle.

Of course these all help, but of course I still struggle.

There is no comfort more familiar than the pain of struggle,

No escape route more sure than dying.

But it’s my responsibility to stop this thought cycle.

Allowing myself grace is an idea still new and fresh.

It is difficult to let go of patterns that have been built up for years.

How hard would it be to baptize me now? How many gallons of water?

I wish I could be a salmon, learning to love any water

I had to wade in. I could learn from the upriver struggle.

And savoring every moment of my five years,

I would never allow it to be on my mind that I was dying.

Every body of water would welcome me with open arms, salt and fresh.

Finally coming to accept my place in the awful cycle.

Let me find the strength to tread water of all kinds without dying.

Help me weather all types of struggle and be born fresh.

Allow me to cycle through the seasons of my life and appreciate every year.

5.6 - highway home

road stretches out in front of me

black asphalt dotted lines

billboard for the courthouse remodel

i picture the clarity of choice

business casual face mask

sweaty armpits silent lunch

mysterious skin validated parking

i picture the guilt

there are things you want no one to know

but want everyone to understand

like how it feels to -

i picture the way life carries on

hands at ten and two

unbuckled seatbelt eyes closed

let's see how steady

i can really ride