I sit with amazement at this:

I am built exactly for this world.

Tonight I’m undressing for you.
The hot stage lights will blind me and flood my eyes with tears.
I will stop seeing you, instead feeling you from afar through vibrating strings and whispering voices of my memory.
It turns out I love love, especially when it haunts me, the most clarity with Ophelia on my tongue –
“Fare you well, my dove!”
Such a young girl on display once again. Twenty-seven and: “Lord, we know what we are, but we know not what we may be.”
Today – a wretched heart.
Tomorrow – doubt thou the stars are fire.

Tonight, the hot stage lights will hide you from my sight, but you will see all my trembling,
all my doubts and failings,
all my desperate attempts to cling to you,
all my fragile thoughts for a beloved,
all the moments I recognize myself and then, just as suddenly, forget,
all the daily drownings leading up to the last one.

For forty minutes tonight,
I will grasp for hints of my unveiling in tomorrow and the next,
hold her and you close,
find myself in a violent swirling river with the columbines and the violets.

Two banana bread beers,
and I’m drunk and talking like Shakespeare.
Closing my eyes on the metro train,
letting it rock me to sleep.

Two banana bread beers,
and I’ve finished a week full of loneliness.
Closing my eyes on the metro train,
knowing exactly where I am.

Poem for January

My January poem is a love letter
(like always).
Can you see it?
Can you feel the warmth that’s coming in from the small oval windows of this plane as I look out over Oklahoma and think of you?
The world is mostly dark at night, I’ve learned, and the cities we construct are choices.
It is more than a small comfort to know you’ll walk in the dark evening with me.
There is so much more we can choose.

Love yourself. Then forget it.
Then, love the world.

-Mary Oliver

I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and
each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own
face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is
sign’d by God’s name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that
wheresoe’er I go,
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.

-Walt Whitman

In 2015, I’m resolving to write love letters,
At least 1 each month,
Both romantic and platonic,
Full of compliments and gratitudes.

I’m loving the poets
and the morning show radio DJs
and the bloggers
and the symphony violinists to start.

Then I’ll move on to the former friends
and the ones I’ve lost touch with
and the current friends
and the friends I want to make this year.

Once those are covered,
words of love to the educators
and the choreographers
and the actors who have helped my soul grow.

When I’m done with them,
the man I see on the train every morning,
the woman I follow on Twitter for Ferguson updates,
the scientist whose book I plan to read this year,
the park ranger who welcomes me to the trail,
the family friend who invites me to dinner,
and the yoga instructor who helps me love my body and mind.

In 2015, I’m resolving to write love letters,
and just about everyone has made the list.

Poem for November

I need to write a poem for November.
I need to pay my rent.
I need to quit my new job – who would’ve thought I’d be the one not cut out for the 9-5?
I need to drink more water and write more letters.
I need to say thanks for the postcard I received in the mail today.
I need to feed myself at regular intervals.
I need to start moving again – the studio and the trails have been calling to me.
I need to remember what’s important.
I need to find my way back to Rachel Corrie.

There’s no writing a love poem for you
  when I’d rather be smelling your neck,
  or rubbing your head,
  or listening to you read anything to me
  (the driest textbook – musical coming from your mouth).

There’s no writing a love poem for you
  while you stare
  with eyes that overflow with adoration
  too epic for a small-town girl like me.

There’s no writing a love poem for you
  by myself;
  you are always present from now on.

There’s no writing a love poem for you
  because our limited time should be spent
  as close as possible.
  How could I ever remove your hip from mine?
  How could I ever take your hand from my back?
  How could I ever disentangle our legs?
  How could I even imagine it?

There’s no writing a love poem for you
  if I don’t know your favorite book or how you take your coffee.
  Is it enough to be intimately familiar with
    the crinkle around your eyes when you smile?
    the sigh you sigh before you cradle my head against your chest?
    the temperature of your lips, the blue of your eyes in the morning and at     midnight?
    your voice affectionately chanting my name?

There is no writing a love poem for you,
  not on paper anyway.


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