Archive for July, 2013


I am 16 again. I’m in bed reading
until 2:35 AM, or later.


I can’t stop discovering.

This time I discover that other people also cry
in the office or on the drive home
in rush hour traffic on 495.

I discover my hip flexors and a surprising bruise
on my inner thigh.

I discover some negatives that never developed.

I discover my teenage poems.
They bring me to bonfire evenings in the country.
You appear, and I shiver with you in the summer.
I shiver on the couch and in my desk chair, and I use up all the tissues.
Eight years later, my corners bump into your ecosystem.
I think about the sky and the plains.


I am still such a young girl.

I liked the lines of buttons on the sleeves of your jacket.
I liked when you cried in front of me.
I didn’t care that you got drunk and high
and lost yourself in the mountains
because I knew you’d wander back.
Maybe not for me, but I’d be here.

I would wrap you up with everything –
all the blankets, all the utensils in my kitchen drawers,
all of my French hair and my fat thighs,
all the things I wrote down and tucked away for later –
while you sang your wandering song
and bought another cheap bus ticket to Chicago.


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