relief

rushing down my arms in rivulets
pouring out of my mouth and my ears
and my eyes down to my toes

i feel a complete exhale
and relax all the muscles
i did not realize i had been tensing

the longest day of the year

in the morning
the sun stretches itself over the
day like saran wrap
curling against the edges
of glassy rimmed
time

i bought a football
because i could not bear
to make a fool of myself in front of you
though you were likely too into being the
designated punter to care
about my inconsistent throws
i always felt your eyes on me
your voice when you were near
and wanted nothing more
than to impress you
nothing more than
to make you drop your guard

is looking back
always as good
as looking forward

part of being in the now
is not regretting the past
or fearing the future

i read on the back of a kombucha
bottle in the park during
one of these
sweltering summer picnics
the ultimate source of wisdom
a glass
cylinder
lopsided on the green grass

June 21st

i feel blue

drown me in the oceans
against the sandy sea bottom
leave me
weaving seaweed in my hair
and filling the air inside conch shells
with my secrets
the last bubbles of oxygen
i can spare

octave (one word)

i stretch an octave
splayed out across this couch
play the lettered keys under me
in time

my eyes are closed
and my skin is bare
all the tones of tan of olive
green of cobalt blue and canary
yellow that my painting teacher
swore to us lurked
within the creases

you are everything to me

it is hard for me to realize this

and then when i do i am
left

smiling
dumbfounded

local (oneword)

locally grown
in my home
i was birthed on this
paisley couch
that i drape my limbs
on lazily in the summer

(that we lay on breathing heavily
secrets into each other's skin
wrapped in our own understandings
and desire)

i cannot stray too far
from this living room
as your arms entrap
my sides

filled to the brim with everything

i cannot understand

to brightly look upon the world
is a gift
that can not be undervalued
a gift
that can not be paid for

siblings

when i start to cry
on the blue geometric rug
i hear you listening

a choked sob
works its way in-between
the jagged edges
and your arms are on my back

your fingers soften and
you look at me so gently
and hug me sweetly
asking me what is wrong

you are wise beyond your years
in your orange t-shirt
and i suddenly am so embarrassed
that i have ever been that bratty older sister

he'll forget it
you tell me
sometimes i am mad at you
but i get over it
you tell me

drawing words of wisdom
from your nine years of life

and i know you are right
and it makes me so happy
to see you like this

i hate the boys that bully you at school
that talk about your sneakers nastily
and tell you they are not your style
whatever suits you is your style

you sitting on this rug with me is your style

i wish i could hold you in my hands
and blow you softly onto the world
letting you glide like a paper airplane
until you found your home

(old poem found in the back of my copy of hamlet)

I try to never
think of them
these other girls
that glide on your perspective
on the outside of your
field of view

you look into my eyes
you tell me that you love me
and only me

but these girls
are snatching hungrily and
I don't know if its our culture
but I was taught to
hate the girls I couldn't see
to bend my
spine in jealousy
(knowing that its not attractive)
writing fantasies
not my own
into grey bedtime nightmares
whereto
rest
my
head

when we can prop ourselves up by
the edges of our smiles
let me string a hammock
between the sides of my mouth
so i can sway there slowly
basking in the breath

i feel the touch of summer on my toes
it comes to me these days
when i wake up with hours of my own
and cannot use them though i try and know
i have to
i think of days in which i can fill that time with my own
creation in which the minutes
will truly be mine

greedily hungrily

to let them dance upon my fingers
crawl up my tan arms
like ants

dawdle their paths across my skin
as i exhale
light strewn shadows

when i fall silent
that is when i need my words

not syllables to print upon the air
but scratchy scribbles on crumpled
papers
hunched over carefully

my elbow juts across the page