sweet honey

lap it up

thick like love on a humid day
smooth down to the skin
of summer.

there is no right
or wrong way, here
it’s always right enough
for me

baby.

pretty in a summer dress.

IMG_6483aSometimes I see
a silent prayer in your face,
a small understanding that
something isn’t right here.

That young innocence
protects your heart
from the great loss
we all know is true.

That innocence that only
feels the love you know
and not a whole hole gaping wide
with so many missed moments
in the stretched future.

Your little words of longing
about how you can still say
whatever you want
because your mama said so
break my heart
even a little more.

I miss your Pa too,
little lady,
I do.

7.16.13

the ease of your wickedness
shone down like a summer sun
through thick green branches
and bubbled my skin just the same.

I must have been a horrible person
to deserve this, surely.

aloe vera and a little love
will heal my tender scorches–
but where will you go
for such a vile soul?

straight to Hell–
and I hope the devil is your doctor.

grief.

It’s a fierce thing that
hits me hard every few hours,
a hard knot between my sternum and soul
that refuses to unravel,
a despair so sharp I am sure
it could break me.

The days between the day you died
and today
feel like centuries.
There is so much to tell you.

I brave this summer with chipped nails
and a silent half-empty heart,
where your memory, our memories,
sit to stew and fuel me until tomorrow,
where I will have to wake up,
miss you,
and start over again.

yellow sunshine
brightens the sky
to a silky soft blue
so close I could reach out
and take cotton ball clouds
cold in my fingers.

you were here
and the scattered scene
of glittery air tells me so.

turn it up
and let me see
your smile.

let me know
it is okay
to smile too.

6.18.13

Something about a hurting heart,
an angry heart, a sad soul
always brings the words
to the surface
flowing onto the page
with such ease and fluidity that
when things brighten up again,

I am
dry.

for my dad.

HOMEMADE MEMORY

I remember the faded-in-the-summer-sun red Coleman cooler,
old and worn,
holding the smell of sour,
salt and pepper shakers, just in case,
a fork tucked wrapped inside napkins
and tucked between pamphlets of content
I cannot recall.

Dad would ramble in the house after work,
dusty and tired from spending the day staring
through the dirt-speckled glass of his Caterpillar blade,
yellow and rusty,
with Herrmann’s printed along its side.
Mom would have dinner waiting,
something made from scratch,
hot and flavorful,
and never appreciated enough.

I remember the entire house smelling
of a construction site during those evenings,
with roused dirt brought in on his boots
skimming through our nostrils while we watched tv,
lying on the cool hardwood floor.
Wheel of Fortune, wrestling, Urkel.

We would tire and saunter
off to our twin beds
in front of open windows,
hoping for some kind of breeze,

and that cooler would sit in the kitchen
next to the wallpapered wall patiently,
ready to be picked up and packed full
the next morning, to start all over again.