Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Coming Home

When I carried my duffel bag up to
My old room,
leather backpack slung over my right shoulder
Macbook in hand,
I found a small disposable camera
Just sitting there,
In a pile of old magazines.
I picked it up, full roll of film.
Without thinking, I snapped my first picture.
My pillows, with their old-lady print
That didn't match my quilt,
The one my grandmother made,
equally dowdy,
but less colorful.
I turned.
The next photo was the miniature Tibetan Prayer Flags
hung across my windows in lieu of curtains.
They came free in the mail one day
And no one can see my room anyhow.
Next, my dresser, covered in debris.
Old, cheap, childish imitations of make-up,
Costume jewelry,
Acne medication,
My softball mitt,
A porcelain doll.
My mirror, full-length,
Propped against the wall.
Old concert tickets,
Autographs from bands
I no longer listen to.
My door, with its faux-vintage travel stickers.
My bathroom mirror,
Open and Closed.
The inside of my closet.
My cowboy boots.
My duffel, with it's old-lady print.
That does not match my pillows
Or my quilt.
Sitting on the foot of my bed,
Waiting to be unopened, unpacked.
I leave it for the morning
And use up the rest of the film.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

The First Real Love Poem I Wrote In Years

Soft songs
soft as cigarette smoke in springtime air or
the brush of an eyelash
against your lover's cheek when you get this
And all you want to do is stay.
In this moment,
in his arms,
in that pure, clean note,
and that's all you'll ever need.
Forever and ever.

Don't you dare let go.
She said.
Hand clasping hand, gentle brush of a thumb up
her skinny wrist.
He smiled.
I won't.

Kafka wrote a love letter.
He asked, pleaded, his beloved
to please write him only once a week.
Not, you see, because he didn't want to hear from her.
Quite the contrary.
In Truth, my darling,
he couldn't bear to hear from her every day.
He was overwhelmed by his love for her,
mad with passion.
I worry that is what I am becoming.
I don't smoke, I won't drink,
and yet
I'm an addict.
I need your voice, your face.
Need to hear you wax poetical on
sentiments of
I so desperately need to believe.

Something about you makes me think
you could be it.
My lucky break.
She said.