I was born under
the sign of the broken
bow and arrow on
a hotter than average
Provo afternoon.

My first breath
tasted like,
“must be something better
than this.”

I will refrain from
poets’ cliches.
*Insert Juan Ramon Jiminez,
“If they give you ruled paper,
write the other way.”

You try living with a
seven-year famine and
a five-minute plague.
Let me know if you fair
any better.

Maybe you haven’t
closed your eyes
and seen his
perfect face staring
directly
not in your direction.

But with this case of pens
I dug my way out
of the hole
lot of nothing there.

I don’t mean to be
Mrs. Kravitz,
but honey
belongs on bread.

Tomorrow,
I hope to wake
and realize it’s Sunday.

I’ll hammer
out a line or two
and get to work
mending that broken arrow.

Virgin River Gorge
of my heart.
“Canyon and tumble weeds
next nine miles.”
Heat vent blows,
but my head is out the window
while I drive us
to the end of tar patched roads.
You could call this home,
but no one knows when you’ve arrived,
and you’ll never really get there.
Fruitless Joshua Trees.
And like U2 said,
“I still haven’t found what I’m lookin’ for…”
Somehow, we’ll meet up
and throw another log on the fire.
Hell always rises on a Wednesday.
We will glug the latte
served by corporate giants.
Rest assured, it will scorch our tongues.
Our water tank oasis
in Death Valley.
Just call me Tomorrow.
I’ll pretend I’m
a sane vessel,
if you can prove you’ve forgotten
how to lie.
Old companions die hard.
Take the wheel,
swerve yellow lines
and off-road
the white dunes.
Like the Cure said,
“Staring at the sea/Staring at the sand…”
Forget the snakes and
flesh feeding spiders.
You’ll sleep well tonight
in your reserved space.

I was contemplating
the day I brought you home.
All snug in January.
All bundled in naiveté.
I was nervous to bathe you.
Scared of breaking fragile.
He drifted in for two days,
but you probably don’t remember
me holding you on the lawn
with hot tears
staining my cheeks
as he left us a duet.

The grass needed watering anyway.

Now you have dark arms
from summer swims.
They recall his brown face
in July.
You read “Dr. Dolittle”
in a most grown-up tone
and ask if you can play harmonica for me.
I cried in the closet yesterday,

but the carpet needed cleaning anyway.

Your breath is lilting,
as you cuddle with bears and dream sequences.
I’m forced to wonder
how I would survive
if you didn’t live in the pink room.

This beginning was broken
and then came the ethereal collapse.
It was a dream
where you hover
and watch yourself
speak.
The mouth doesn’t move
but words still manage to

echo

echo
echo.
Reverberations
bounce
and slam against your throat.
Choke them back,
let them melt against your teeth.
My false face is on again
because I’m confronted
with what cannot be held.
I pick it up with kid gloves.
Roll it in a ball.
Toss it in the air.
It will eventually end up in the trash,
like a candy wrapper or broken toy.
Bent forward,
head in my hands,
hair disheveled.
The dream ended,
but I never woke up.
The only way I know it was real
is a blood-stain soaks
my shirt where my heart used to be.

Where did we go
wrong turn at Albuquerque
is just close enough to Santa Fe
to be far enough from home
run under the bleachers
during the time I was in love
with no one but him and him and him
and there he goes again
waving out the window
covered with fog
inside my head
all these random, swirling
snows in winter that cover the road
to nowhere and beyond
unbelievable is what you’ve become
a burden that I’m willing to unload
at the station down by the tracks
where I took that first wrong turn
at Albuquerque.

This doesn’t stop me.
Thoughts of you in a low-lit room,
licking the paint off my walls.

You could become
my creature of habit.
If that’s what you have planned,
sit on my lap for a while.

These songs enter slowly
and then speed up
until we’re dizzy, dizzy
but it doesn’t count for much
at 2 a.m.

Then you said, “Tell me,
tell me if you’re believing
this lie?”

And I couldn’t say no,
because I bought every word, Love.

I walked on your back
because it needed crackin’
and you grunt the air out
because there was no place
for it to go.

But your back was sturdy
and I wasn’t shy
so here I am wondering
with my throat bone dry.

And you’ll keep on lyin’
and lying here
waiting for me to disprove you.

And I can’t.

Because I already told you…
I’m hanging on your every word,

Love.

Luv.

L-O-V-E!

Here comes the
dream again.
Snails winding
their way through
snow.
Making little slime trails
(as snails will do).

You are sitting
a great distance away
in a school chair;
the hard, plastic, orange kind
with metal legs
and slats in the back
for breathing room.
You look warm
and ever so inviting
in your down coat.
In your lap,
you hold what appears to be
my heart,

but I could never
be sure it’s mine.
I’ve given it away
too frequently
and it’s probable
I never recovered it
the last time.

I can’t get to you
quickly enough.
I’m sure an idiot
in my bra and boxer shorts,
but lucky day,
I remembered my moon boots.
They prove cumbersome
in my attempt to trudge,
and this snow
is powder.
A skiers dream,
my worst nightmare.
My skin is turning
bright red,
as the snow pelts my face.
My hands are hot and tingly.
The snails cruise passed me,
leaving slime trails
(as snails will do)
and they whisper,
“You’ll never win!”

Your eyes are the color
of caramel latte,
but I can’t make out
your other features.
And DAMN these boots
and what I believe is
my cold-cold, used-up,
frozen heart.