The Drinking Game

she couldn’t stomach anything all week

doctor’s diagnosis; the stomach virus of the spring

week old vodka slithers down the spine and into a belly

that vomited just twice this morning

she clasps the secretive flask, brimming full with a bitter brew

unscrews the cap, tips it back,

rubbing alcohol and sweet sugar

numbing the pain of stretched muscles

clenched teeth, soaking liquid into tired skin

tongue like leather, each bud boiling from the lick of liquor

wincing, she wishes she could hold her face still like the men

who take gin and tonics in a heartbeat

–she takes hers in two

She couldn’t stomach anything all week

but still she plays the drinking game 

Rhododendron

Sweetly soaked pastel petals

Floated, removed from their spindly stems

Their tops bobbing briefly to the surface

Of her lukewarm bath from early this morning

She had asked for roses, but instead

Received rhododendron

Dull tones to match her skin

Sinking, the flower buds wait to be saved

While she stays at the bottom

Lifeless in a porcelain vase

Unhappy

A snow globe held

tiny fragile plastic

specs of white

and shiny glitter

in a slushy sort of

watery membrane,

mixed in a liquid

that bubbles to the top

when shaken.

A miniature tree rests

next to a cobblestone house

with a red door and

checkered windows.

Something feels the need

to interrupt its stillness

and the settled snow and

shiny bits that look so tempting.

The whiteness rises to the top

and cascades around the

baby building.

Everything swirls

and it looks silent

and serene but it’s

really just chaos.

It’s shaken twice more and

then it’s allowed to rest,

but the tree

leaks teardrops

and the house

is horrified

and suddenly

the snow seems

dull and the glitter

doesn’t shine and all

this entire bubbled-up scene

wants is a moments rest,

some peace to forget

it’s constantly being

disturbed.

Summer Swimming

She wondered

With one quick thought

Who he was

And where was he going

Becoming quickly familiar with

His sun-kissed curly hair

And eyes of baby algae;

The kind that floats on

A warm lake

Late in the afternoon

Only for a moment she allowed

Her tanned skin to

Submerge in their coolness

And she wanted to never

Return to the surface

But she could only hold her

Breath for so long

Finding it was realistic

For her to float

In some comfortable

Puddle of water

She soon became familiar

With distance

And her inability

To swim

But she remembered

Him and the summer’s past

And she found a way

To stop treading,

Hold her breath

And jump in deep,

Happily never

Reemerging.

An East and West Egg Love

Across the ocean I see the green light

My eyes peering through the darkness

Hoping for a day when our love can unite

And thinking it is more than blindness

Hold me until you see my train depart

Whisper secrets for only me to hear

I promise to be strong when we part

If you swear to rid yourself of your fear

Every girl will become a beautiful fool

But that is the best that we can do

Because we see the world and how it’s cruel

I know my feelings for you are true

But parties and gifts mean nothing to me

Only your trust of what this love should be.

Frigid

 

A house built with ice

Sits frozen on what could be

A familial street

Those that reside inside

Wish for warmth

But instead given

Cold glances and are

Forced to look past the

Barbed wire that

Entangles the front porch and

Stretches before the doorway

Where a house mat tries to

Welcome in guests that are

Never allowed past the corridor

Careful breaths are taken and

Held in, only to be released

Seeing each molecule of

Gas float and disappear in an instant

It takes so long to breathe but

Seconds to remind us that we walk a

Thin cable between living

And just making it by

But sometimes breathing inside of

This wasteland of

Tundra bricks and mortar

Is the only thing that stops the patients from

Losing what is left of their minds

Still, they forget they have

Slippery tongues and they

Accidentally allow

Ungrateful words, regrettably exchanged

Icicles that hang

Shatter like the

Broken bits of inhabitants,

Those that sit and wait

Wondering what will set off a

Fire that aims to burn down

The ice-house

 

Burning, it melts

Goodhearted laughs

Board games and clean dishes

No matter—it can be put out

With a headshake and

A whisper,

“What’s the point of going on”

Bile rises in two or maybe three throats

But no one can release the tension

They hold inside every half-hour

The ice always returns

Unbreakable and surviving

With elements of

Pretend prayers and frozen water and

Flames that can be put out by

Tears of twelve-year-olds and

Closed doors that no key can open

The prisoners shiver silently

And hope that one day they

Can destroy the ice that

Has been attempting to hold

Everyone together

Table for Two

Mexican melodies

Mixed with knives and forks

Against white porcelain plates

As leftover sun makes its way

Into the room where we sit

Spice and salt

And sipping sangria

Watching resting candles

On wooden tabletops

Our flame flickers the fastest

Illuminating our

Intertwined hands

Three glasses in and

We’re feeling warm and sweet

Talking loudly

And enjoying village atmosphere

I want to stand up

And sway, unsure

If it’s the wine

Or the bliss of

Having you with me

They always say,

“It takes two to tango”

And as you let me

Grab your hand and

Try to keep a tempo

I realize it only takes one

To make a soul dance

When Roots Turn Into Roads

We had dreams

tucked neatly in

our back-pockets,

and we set off

toward the neon lights

and sky beasts.

The stars were our shields

and our whispers cut like

a steel sort of sword.

There is passion on the

tips of our tongues

and loud heartbeats

deep in our throats.

I see a tree

that splits its trunk,

and it spills out

coarse gravel and macadam.

Each gnarled, knotty branch

curves and beckons me

to take a different path.

The roots expand

and push through placid

pavements.

Our walk continues,

with footsteps crunching

the leaves of a home

I’ve been wanting to forget.

But the cobblestones

become cab lights,

and the swing sets become

shiny street signs,

and I understand

the romance of

creative minds

will require only train fares

and intertwined

arms.

Focus

Flecks of dandelion yellow,

In a crystalline dew drop,

The reflection of a light that’s low,

Shows a green that makes my thoughts stop.

Honey hair grazes freckled skin,

Creating a canopy,

Surrounding two pools to dive in,

And moonlight that wants to take me.

I caress his unmarked shore,

Focusing on fluttering water,

Restless of knowing I’ll need more,

Of these colors that bring me farther.

On land, the passion in his face,

Is something I cannot erase.

 

In His Sleep

She listens to

the low hum

of a hotel fan,

with her head

balanced between

the soft platform

of his chest

and the space

under his arm.

They are together but

she sneaks out of bed

to look at the

cracks of evening

glow and his resting eyes.

She tries not to disturb

his obvious and

comfortable sleep, and

as if he heard her thoughts

he stirs,

“What are you doing?”

he asks her with

remains of dreams in

his garden green eyes.

She answers with a simplistic

smile and crawls back to

the spot she shared with him,

stroking his tired skin and

thinking about how

there is even romance in

the questions he asks her.