notmorethings

[notmorethings]

This One Will Be Untitled

You make in me a passion the branches of the tree wrap around the trunk,  the trunk holds fast to those branches leaving, straining, trying to hold out. Grains of flowered pollen dust under my feet and cold clear mountain water and your smile, your head above water, bobbing welcome to me.

It wasn't that I decided you would be for me but that tingle in my neck from where your hands brushed mine you hugged me at the end of our first meeting as if we had  long ago become friends and I was leaving on a ship to sail on and journey away.  That lingered and I felt you until I had to see you again you gave without fear which made me love you before I even knew I had decided to call you back.

[notmorethings]

Tidal

What if she is in everything now? What if she became the stars? She was a wonder, she was a gift she was a sight to behold. 

Let me tell you Tears will happen they will slide from your eyes you’ll think of her marveling at things instead of you when you witness a wedding between those two she loved so the birth of a baby she would’ve have kissed dinner you could have shared with her laughing and drinking together talking of the day the spilled cream in your coffee all these things will suddenly warm up inside it’s always surprising how tears are hot they should match the cold longing you feel

convince yourself these sad things are pleasures they are memories lost yes but they are memorials, you see, you remember her you create her again she lives in you she is the quote she is a song she IS NOT a footprint in the sand to be blown away she is the iron ladder of your blood the winding traits in your self to be passed on to be seen to be felt I try to think of good things ...  like how we will not see her grow old

she will not wither she will not groan and ache she will not stoop and slump

we will not have memories of her forgetting us her eyes will always be bright her smile quick and easy her laugh wild and loud her hands grasping the air for the story as she includes you in her life with a hug Hear the threads sing as you weave her into your day? “She would’ve loved that… she would’ve laughed at this…” She is gone. Yes. A resounding yes. But, her color is dyed into everything you touch and others will get to see the pattern she left for you to follow.

[notmorethings]

Pink

Every summer twilight I write a screenplay in my head. 

[notmorethings]

Mass

[notmorethings]

I should have built your coffin.

Cancer demanded you go in the ground, but I wish I had made your resting place. I wish I had done one last thing for you to make you safe. I would have covered it in the drawings we made in school, tacked on you, surrounding you. A blanket of what you were most proud of, us.

[notmorethings]

I'm happy

Still, I wish I could talk to you.

[notmorethings]

Sleep with the Fishes

The man on the bus has the tail end of a fish tattoo on his hand, swinging in flight up to his knuckles. The rest of the fish is tucked away under his shirtsleeve, and he reaches his hand up to gently place an ear-bud into the little girl's ear. His little girl. She must be, the way he is with her. She sits on his lap, facing him, her petite hand curled around his collar. She has big brown eyes she uses to watch everyone on the bus, peering out from behind his collar. He only has eyes for her.  He is all in black and blue, even his face is patched in tones of weathered red, half-brown and pale. His eyes are heavy and his chin is scruff. His jeans are as worn as he.  Now, she.

She is purple leggings and white princess tennis shoes. Pink sweater pink coat and a purple-and-pink hat, that is revealed, by him, from his dark coat pocket and neatly placed and pulled down her head, covering part of her brown curls. She doesn't move while he does this, and when he's finished, he kisses her covered head. Her eyes move to acknowledge the kiss, then back to the bus.  He pulls out his phone. His other arm holds her close. He changes the song they share together, and gently rocks her to it. She closes her eyes. Her watch is done. 

I remember him because he had the look of a person who had done a lot of things wrong in his life, the regret pock-marked across his face. As he rocked her, he looked upon her face and, without thinking the world would notice, a look came across him that spoke, "I must've done something good, to have been given her."

[notmorethings]

Suddenly she's gone, you know, and even though you knew it was coming, you don't have all the labels on things. The last dinner you had at the table. The last normal phone conversation. The last snuggle. The last time she made dinner, and you watched, your elbows on the cold granite counter-tops and your legs swinging from the stool. The last hug you weren't gentle or careful about. The last frantic squeezing out of her breath until she laughed and squirmed to get away.  Because now all you have is a scrapbook, in pieces. You can put her in the kitchen, but it's not a specific day or time or dinner, even. You can feel how she felt in a hug, but not the last moment you showed her through your squeeze that you loved her. Because that becomes the most important thing, when she's gone. Did I do it enough? I know I loved her more than anything, but did I show it to her enough? In my actions? In our memories we made together? 

You did. If you ask yourself these questions, you did. She knew.

She knew.

[notmorethings]

Felled

She looked out the window at the trees.

She looked at his old boots by the door, the ones he only wore when he would work around the house, not the new boots, the new ones he had started wearing to work. The new boots he would squeeze into in the morning, on the bench by the front door. As he would bend down to tie his laces, she would skirt over to him and, in between washing the breakfast dishes and packing his lunch, she would bend down and kiss him on the back of his neck. The new boots had been left on him. Died with his boots on, that’s how the men liked it, that’s what they liked to say, as if Death was offended if you wore dirty boots. As if Death had put in new carpet, and you tracked in mud and muck from your life as you crossed the threshold. Men liked to slyly smile at this notion, that Death cared, that you had a chance to make a mockery of Death, to offend Death one last time. 

She stared at the old boots. She looked at the blue tiles on the counter, and wiped them again with the rag. Dropping it in the sink, she walked out the front door. They had brought his tools, his helmet, his personal chainsaw and axe. They had placed them by the door when she didn’t answer, thinking she’d want to be alone. Picking up the axe, she weighted it in her hands. The handle was smoothed down from years of use, even after they’d started using the new electric saws he had continued using this old axe, sharpening it at night, replacing the handle that time it had split. She rubbed her fingers against the metal, felt the brushed steel. The pines moved. The redwood in the front yard stood still, silent, and the red-brown bark stood stark against the gray clouds. It would rain today, if it hadn't already.

She turned. If a man is killed by another man, you hate the man, or you forgive him, or you take revenge. If a disease takes hold of your love, or age bears them away, you sit and mourn, but it does not taunt you. The pines brushed against each other, the branches clapping together. The redwood stood. 

She walked towards the giant. Nearly 5 feet in diameter, he had measured it himself when they had first come to this house. He’d admired the tree, pressing his hand into the bark. He always had a thing to say about the trees. Most men cut and work, they look at the trees and see a crop, not as living beings to be admired, but something to be harvested. But he had always liked to talk about the different species, taking the younger men under his wing and quizzing them on the trees. He had had respect for the trees, and in turn the men had liked him, found him endearing, the old man and his love of trees. The branches of the pines waved at her. The redwood still stood.

She lifted his axe. He had shown her once, the proper stance, the arms flexed, the turning of the legs and the body moving together, careful not to twist so the back didn’t do all the work. She swung. The axe bounced against the thick bark, didn’t make much of a dent. She lifted it again, a little off balance, she corrected her stance. Swing. Thud against the bark. Again. Lift. Swing. Thud. Lift. Swing. Thud. Carefully at first, she calculated as she had seen him do, as he had done for years. She angled the blade, moved around the tree. Her mouth tasted of salt from her sweat, and then, of her tears. She didn’t hear the truck pull up, the door slam. She continued swinging, her hands blistered. Her breathing rasped. Her side ached. Her arms were numb. Someone, John, their neighbor, ran up to her. On her upward swing he took the handle, wrestled it from her. She cried out, fell against the tree, the mocking thing, still standing, still living. Without him. Pushing her fingers into the bark, she pulled the bark off, stripping it bare. John took her around the waist, pulling her away. They fell to the ground, in the mud and the needles. The pines swayed. 

Taking her inside, he sat her down, wrapped her in a blanket. She wondered when it had started raining, she was soaked through. John took her face in his hands, held it, looked at her. He wondered what she was seeing, what memories she was reliving. She couldn’t see the pines swaying, but she could hear their groaning against the wind that was pushing them.

You can’t chop down all the trees. If only they could be ripped from the earth, like a page from a book. She looked down at her blistered, bleeding hands. Her body began shaking, convulsing with sobs. She couldn’t breathe. A world without trees. She looked at John. She pulled from him. She stood and walked outside. He followed her. He watched her walk up to the largest tree in the yard, embrace it. Sob into it. Say something to it he couldn’t hear. She bent down and picked up the axe. Lift. Swing. Thud. He did not stop her this time.

[notmorethings]

Aperture

I like the rain.  I've been trying to remember a rainy day I had with my mom. While I can picture her, and the rain, and me, I just can't remember a specific rainy day that we shared together. I'm sure there were many. I remember her visiting me in Portland, walking to the Farmer's Market together, sitting on my front porch eating the sardines and potatoes I had made for us. She had been so impressed that I had made sardines. "They're high in omega-3 you know. Good for you." I can remember lots of things, but they're either too broad or too specific. Tiny little things, like the way she would rub her nose when it itched, but not what we did on her birthday. I can swap outfits on her, in and out of season, like she's a SIMS character. I can have a conversation with someone, and place her next to them, smiling and nodding her head, laughing and asking them about where they grew up. More of my conversation is prompted from her, from what I think she would say. She's in the orchestra pit, reading me my lines as I go on. I like the rain. I like the gray days, the overcast. It matches all my thinking a bit better than a bright, sunny day. There are fewer people out, it makes me feel like I have more space in the world to stretch my thoughts, my memories. My grief. 

[notmorethings]

Sound

There are rocks that tumble in a tide; black rocks, pearl-white, blue-gray and red-brown ones The rocks, do they notice the grains of sands swirling around them? 

The sand is their brethren, yet forgotten in the tide.  Rocks. You will be among them always, always the water flows within almost tied to each other, until dried. 

We are two rocks, you and I and I marvel at how we tumbled together, resting near and stacked upon this sunrise above the sea we watch and you and I, we found each other or were placed together by the sands of the sea.

[notmorethings]

static cling

We watched a movie in your bed and I hated how you held my head. Cradled between your thumb and finger around my neck your palm would linger. Gripping when I tried to pull away "I want you near," was all you'd say. Leaving me arching and my neck a-crook. My eyes strained at the film to get a look. This was your way of giving affection. Why I let you pin me close why you believed I would leave as soon as I got the chance made me wonder why I didn't. the rhyme is gone because I can't make an effort to explain why you fight for the fight to bear the pain to show someone you want the good even though they never  give it.

[notmorethings]

Sinews

I just get scared and don't like feeling foolish and I lose my patience. And I love lots of things too quick and too much and I'm too sensitive and anxious and over-think things and I'm passionate and stupid and wait to the last minute to do things and I think too much about what other people think.  And I demand to be with a person who deserves my love. And who takes my attention. A person who inspires me and thrills me and makes me think. Not all the time or constantly, I'm not crazy, but enough. Enough. I need a person who is enough for me, and I realize that "enough" for me is a lot or too much for other people to sustain over a long period of time. So I have to find a person whose starting point is equal to mine, that way we can run the race at the same pace, from the same start.  I think that's the only way I can truly love someone. Someone who is the very best for me, and nothing less. Because I've done that, in my past. I've loved someone who was lazy and boring and not enough, and I wasn't the best for them either. And I loved someone who didn't give me anything but bruises and who manipulated me and made me feel stupid and made me think that they had all the things I wanted but they were waiting for me to show them I was worthy enough for all the things I thought they had. But really they were just lost, more lost than me, and insecure and mean. So, so mean. With no really point to it at all, except to makes themselves feel significant. And I'm ashamed to admit I stayed with them longer than I should have, because I was hoping I could fix them, because I was using them to distract myself from myself, and not fixing me when I should've gotten the fuck out of there and found someone who was worthy of my love. But that lesson had to be learned the hard way, and I'm embarrassed and ashamed and disgusted with myself that I stayed with them until they hit me and burned me and made me bleed and I bailed them out of jail. All those stereotypical stories and pathetic girls, they're not that pathetic. They're just trying to take on shit that doesn't belong to them, because it's not as hard. The harder the shit someone puts up with, the harder the shit they have going on in their own head. So give them a little slack, you know? Please. I just don't want to feel alone when I lie in bed with someone. I want to feel connections of little white light strings from my head to yours, and I want to be heard and feel seen. And loved, loved in a big way. Big. Because I deserve it. 

[notmorethings]

Too much of you makes me sad too little makes me lonely. Be a pendant around my neck just don't weigh too heavy.

[notmorethings]

Dear to the Wind

We sat on the porch and drank champagne cocktails. There was warm summer rain. That sort of gray white of the evening turning down. Two sturdy black rocking chairs, this house the porch, I stared away from your hand squeezing mine and tried to count the leaves. I thought in an instant how happy I was how sad I was how I loved the sound of the rain and the smell and you next to me and it was quiet and she was gone and I couldn't I can't call her on the phone and say, "Momma, I think I have found someone who could love me." And the lesson I have been learning and avoiding that all my sweet and good and marvelous for the rest of my days will have a small bite at the end of it,  the thought that all the good is good, but it was even better when I could share in it with her. Don't misunderstand. I am happy.  I have found some of it. I just know how happy this would have made her and crying is just like sneezing now. It happens and then you are blessed and then you continue.

[notmorethings]

tears like stairs (he threw me down)

I can't help when change occurs

I can't help but fight it or love it with open arms and legs pushing for it I can't help the smell of blood reminding me of how I bled for three days after I can't help but flinch when your hand rises swift to swat that fly I can't help but roll over and mumble remain distant and worry that if I don't reject you first, you will do something worse like love me for my faults,  in spite of my past my spite at my recognition that i loved him once how he still sounded the same as if we were making love but there was no love to be found in that room his sheets were gray and jersey knit he had a blanket with a wild stallion on it he loved it in a child-like way that made me love him

I can't help but feel fear and desperation shame and hopelessness that I did it all to myself anger and biting my lip when someone deems someone, anyone anything "invalid" because nothing is so alone as being recently left or told your story is not worthy of recognition.

let me be let me at least have my story, my truth because even I can't accept me don't I want love? don't I yearn for it? why don't I deserve it just because love was used to take from me? I just wish it didn't have to happen to you to make you understand too.

[notmorethings]

bluegreenbluegreenpink

touch as if you are forgive as if you're not able to understand the idea of holding onto things ticks are ways of your skin trying to make you go the way of your ancestors your eyes get tired and sore at night because they want to see the sunrise and they haven't seen it  for a long, long time you are not stupid you are glass against rose champagne sensitive and delightful misunderstood and scoffed for being too sweet

i love your brown rough skin black and red where you've rubbed raw you make me cry when you touch my waist I forgot how being desired felt my ribs expand noisily outward, trying to get more of your hand around them you're a cherry tree strong and wanted, beautiful and crafted in the ways you have allowed smooth and gentle, needing only  when you want to bend your blue blossoms of eyes  the skyline I saw from the ground as I laid on the grass eyes closed giddy at the sound of your steps