small talk
Tick tock, tick tock—the sound of the face accompanies the marching of the gears in motion going tick tock, tick tock. The air is acrid and scorches down my throat but still, I am here, I am waiting, for a half-baked flight of fancy to take form and tick tock. Waiting. My gaze plummets and falls to the face that lies flat against my pulse and it's there, tick tock, flat against my wrist, because I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve but it’s warm in this room so tick tock goes my heart, here against my veins.
She must have been really proud.
Small talk; yeah, she must have have been, that’s what you said but still I wonder why I’m here and so I turn to leave, to walk away from all this waiting and tick tock machining. But my gaze stops; there’s a distant shape, flat against the floor: a vacant tomb, the commemorative shell of a fallen cockroach. Tick tock tones my blood as it jumps and surges like the twenty volts, the electric charge like the live wire on the table beside me.
Why are you afraid? It’s dead.
You laughed at me. It’s dead, yes, and I pride myself on my courage but I was afraid, there, of the death in that room, and that fear coalesced to a new cadence of tick tock against my wrist. And I could not tell you why I was afraid. Insignificant, an insect, a potential jump in half a heartbeat. There on that table beside me, the voltage dropped and tick tock the beating machine slowed and still I gazed at that silent form, flat against the floor. I couldn’t tell you why I was afraid, but you knew.
It is the opposite of you.
if you’re not sad, then why are you crying?
snow-trimmed fir
and lazuli lakes. The sky tastes like
raspberry blue,
how he coaxed the clouds that
in your world, were drowning
or drawing
pastels on sherbet days
wondering what the hell is wrong with sherbet
when the kids these days
want ice cream, fresh loaves and
live bait in a general store.
Sometimes I run away from happiness
scramble over eras
ink brushed on ice age relics, palaeolithic stone
the birch trees won’t hold
me up like this forever.
these days I’m painted with
forget-me-not blue and blended over red
I’m not brave, I’m a coward, but they always said
to become something
so I’m trying
steeped in afterthought, turmeric tea
enter calico sunrise
you come in waves
steel clouds closing over sheets of rain
storm chasing
we call it a silver lining because
it fills the space
the thunder is a backbeat cascade and
our lungs ache for closure
but our bodies lack the oxygen
so we reach out hands to catch our breathe
the little one paints her imagination in the markers
pretending, climbing over couch cushions
An empty coffee table
I play pretend that we are happy now
and the truth is raw in her arms
holding me up, now more than ever
I need her to be tough on me
but she breaks and I know this is real
they tell me to love the ocean
and technicolor sunsets
but I find beauty in the rain
in sunrise through the mist and
salt-sweat stains. I trade tears for calloused hands
I find comfort in the storm
we are family after all
you were family, after all
guilt stricken in our happiness
we search the space you used to fill
your last time to try it
the glasses clink and the night begins—
smiles passed from place to place
and plates
dance clockwise
around the table
this conversation is a waltz
a three-step parade;
and I was so afraid
to see myself reflected in the glasses we raised.
we’re three years from strangers
and miles from home
the laughter is music,
a beat my heart takes
I count steps in time
but stop
to breathe in this sweetness
this blueberry wine
Relevance
It’s a beautiful morning for a row.
Sunlight, streaming amber, casting violet hues
On gentle waves winding through bridge after bridge after bridge.
Swing together, swing back, under bridge after bridge after bridge.
Softly now, tap here, tap there;
Alignment is quiet.
Sitting ready.
All is quiet.
This is the start.
Focus, like an arrow
Bodies bending; sinew flinching sharp and quick
Attention
Focus down, focus in
You’re on!
Arms bent, legs pressing the world away one stroke at a time.
Sweat drips, the oarlocks click boom down as we round
bridge after bridge after bridge.
Again and again and again
We practiced this
Again and again and again
Instinct.
But still we strive for perfection
Reaching out, reaching in for perfection
Searching for meaning in perfection.
Races are not won with perfection.
Show me you want it more.
Be
Relevant.
Show me you deserve this seat.
Show me you matter.
Prove something
Prove anything
A single-minded goal is red across my gaze
A haze
Eight hearts beating, skipping rocks across the waves.
The red is a violent hue against the waves.
All this pain is not poetry it is just pain.
But we give it meaning.
It’s a beautiful morning for a row.