(Sh)anonymous

in the centre of what is supposed to be good, Dreams speak my truth.

little blood speckles from mozzie bites in the sapphire evening, and you

 listening and loving. (forgiving) Both caught up in the quiet, fire

pouring from your throat, smoke teases up

spelling burnt hope into the tile roof.

– oh, you. Still friend. Still real. Still here.

I don’t need a dream this time.

eye contact

sudden, unconventional family waiting for the bus

dripping rain on our luggages, 1am Chicago time. The pilot Matt (or was it Mack?)

says this is the first time he’s seen O’Hare like this. The woman in the red jacket agrees

and hugs her purse close. When the Country Inn shuttle pulls up, we rush

squeezing into seats, holding each other’s luggage and making room for standing.

Matt is the last one on. We bounce down the highway laughing, making jokes about

spring break and beer runs. “I need a drink!” people keep yelling as we pass

shady convenience stores. LIQUOR. BEER. CIGARETTES.

For these twenty minutes, we become best friends. I say something

and everyone laughs. The guy next to me makes a comeback. (Do they know

this is my only dream?) We pull up to the hotel’s automatic doors.

The round Texan man with a barbecue drawl lets me out first.

coterie

(The Mindy Project says

that psycho people can make friends. That I

can make friends that stick. I will run up stairs

to find them. Gamble for it. Dance in the dark.)

The girl who did my nails had bright blonde bangs

and we talked about “down the shore”. Maybe

I am actually from somewhere. Maybe I have a tribe.

My Delaware valley accent is back. Outside smells

like the Easter baskets Nana Wagar gave us that one year.

I’m under the gun again, but with so much home stored up here

I can get back on that motorcycle and cruise over these buttery roads.

Someday he will sing “Sha-la-la-la-in love with a Jersey girl!” and I

will be that girl. We will stack rocks at the Cape May sunset.

The band will play again. I will get splinters on the boardwalk,

hell, maybe even a spray tan. No one would judge me for it.

My wanderlust has been beaten, frozen out of my heart.

I just want to sleep till noon and wake up somewhere

safe. I want to give my kids

this sandy soil, as it pours through my manicured fingernails

and (no one called me “weird”.) they will pluck tulips

and yell,”tractor!” The old folks church will smile

and take them out to breakfast. (as they loved me.)

a song for holly

if I could find the words to string together

to explain why you have kept me going this year

I would tell everyone

but you already know how

your quiet brilliance has carried

my burning craze through months

of turmoil. For one thing I am sorry though:

Hinduism brought us together,

and ice tried to kill us together.

(I have never been so desperate for someone else’s life)

Now I have another thing to be afraid of,

driving in dirty snow and

the scraping noise ice makes as tires slide through it

(reminds me of your bright blood)

but this time I am not alone

and I wish for your sake you did not have to suffer with me

simultaneously, I am so selfish and so thankful for you.