-

The past visits unannounced

for seconds at a time:

lightning striking a clear sky

with no storm to come. 

Regret hovers within safety

this way. 

Chunks of memory 

rain down like debris,

the remnants of a tornado - 

an old mattress torn by shovels

and coral. 

It is still cradling the scent

of the tree from childhood

that has just been forgotten,

but whose fantasy worlds

still live within. 

The memory of soaring

out of mind, not muscle,

as biceps twitch

still reaching out

like a lighthouse searching

above a glass-still sea. 

The future alway seemed to be

an endless shore

surrounded by shallow water

now a winding road

leading somewhere

other than blackness,

somewhere other 

than the continuation

of an identity

gradually

collapsing

in on

itself.

Now, here I am

scaffolding myself

to stop collapsing

because picking you up

is more motivating than it ever was

to pick up myself. 

Some nights we walk under the stars

and you don't feed me the lines

about all those we see that are dead, 

their last glimmer gasps still lingering

or haunting.

You point out hypothetical locations

for where stars are alive

whose light is still only theirs

while my womb softly burns. 

And some nights the limbs of the past

still wrap around like a boa constrictor;

some days I can feel the cold

of the winter I summoned

to smother the sun

that was so close

and so

out of reach - 

the winter

that is always on the precipice

of "almost gone."

Now, here I am 

picking up myself in order

to pick you up. 

No, this wasn't the beginning I wanted,

a girl too weak to learn

to function without always hurting

(just a little)

to keep the beast inside

from running wild

sustaining productivity 

off of hunger, a voice

calling out faintly

in the pitt of me

always responding

"Yes, I hear you" 

and then leaving it be. 

Now, here I am no longer

living for meaningless

while raking all meaning

from my yard

like dead leaves. 

Now, here I am finding meaning

through pushing you up a hill

every day, to have us roll down

in the evening. 

I embrace you,

sweating and panting,

struggling to say

that it was only when I acknowledged

I know nothing

that I was open

to start finding. 

All I know

is that we are headed

someplace that breathes

building a home with our footsteps

that are always washing away.

All I know

is that the winter is outside

this time.

Author's Note

Sept '16