The Cascades were unusually lit this morning;

the clouds had backed off appropriately

and stuck to the city.

The day seemed to exist only at the base.

Evidence perhaps, that from time to time

even the gods know enough not to blanket

something capable their own weather.

It's this belief that I had to leave myself

to love properly, as if I'd be found,

not by some God, but a man. Perhaps not

my brother with his sticky breath,

even my father, but a man,

one to grace me with another title

to choke down, drown under, marry into.

Save me the delusion

of being enough without this practice

of leaving myself to love properly,

being saved, not by some God,

but a man

even if it meant creating one

and it did

so I did

and with him, you,

all of you, again

with your sticky breath

and careless ways.

There are times when running is the sanest of options;

not your mundane jaunt with denial,

neither your drink to the bottom,

breathe your last line, fall numb into cotton clad,

king sized paradise for one, kind of run,

rather a save your ass before he crawls in

and steals the skin out from under your feet kind of run;

you get no test from the local administration,

just in case fire breaks out exit here kind of drill,

this here's the real McCoy.

Hell, you've seen that look before, on the junkie down the street

staring through the needle as if one more minute without a blink

and in the plastic he'd be; one with the gods of oblivion.

So let's not vacillate, hesitate, flutter your spring time wings

like some overzealous butterfly

hell bent on the deep purple taken up next to the daisies.

No you'd do best to slip on those five inch,

manmade, stainless steel reinforced spiked heels

and march your proper, pinky finger lifting,

beer or wine drinking, gorgeous ass right out of dodge

and find someone, somewhere

who wants you more

and needs you

less.

He broke up with socks, said he hoped the new shoes

would do the trick; toughen things up a bit.

Seemed mighty brave, all I had was a revelation;

I lived in boxes of myself.

It seemed a strange thought driving through the landscape

that reminded me of Sarah Conner; navigating the sand,

plowing into her past, securing her future.

Hardly box like, still not as brave as breaking up with socks.

Hell I'd barely grown used to being awake

with its awareness of boxes and the like.

Crazy boxes I had told her, when I stopped driving the landscape

that brought to mind movies of three lifetimes ago.

Admirable, breaking up with socks, trying new shoes;

mighty brave.

I wondered how he was faring and if my boxes came close.

My shoulder burns again.

It's the tension, or the tattoo.

It hasn't been the same since

those damn needles.

It was the ribbon that killed it.

Full black outline. Less needles or something.

Plus he did wield it like it was some

kind of carving tool.

Not like a chef touching up a turkey, chicken or

heavenly fillet. More like an ice sculptor,

all in a flourish to finish his first fancy mustache!

It's gotta be the tension. Or the couch I dropped on it

playing my version of superwoman. It's hard to say

with the bombs (that weren't really bombs)

still screaming in everyone's ears.

It doesn't help at all that you're gone again,

all I can hear is the screaming and the damned newsman.

Plastic make up, canned voice, plastered hair.

Fallacy at its finest, so much like your reasoning,

so near my denial.

Being a few years beyond perching, I sat.

Sat in the barn and listened.

Listened to the horses eat, the frogs chatter,

and the clock tick between them both.

I sat, not caring to perch with much grace,

studied the dog standing guard, and thought.

Thought of each of you, far too many of you,

leaving, leaving far too soon.

Being a touch too tired to perch, I sat.

Muddy boots, fingernails a disgrace, I sat.

Sat in the barn and remembered.

Remembered the first time I felt like the driftwood

that colored my poetry back when I believed

them both to be romantic, and I sat.

Sat in the barn, and listened.

Listened to the clock bounce between

horses, dogs, the occasional frog, and thought.

Thought of a young woman

not too far from the one that chose driftwood

back when the grief was too thick to see, and wondered.

Wondered if she’d make it through without turning to wood.

And hoped that tonight, if nothing else,

she had that occasional frog chattering.

Chattering between clocks ticking, horses eating,

and dogs standing guard.

I went to the beach today

walked to the water

hopping over logs

that struck me

as too random to be

anything but

I wondered what you'd think

sitting alone with only

the slightest of waves and a sun

insisting on one last stretch

across the sound

tossing its glare about as if

it had all of time

watching layer upon layer

of mountain top

change shape with each minute

or wave that seemed to believe

dancing the tide was a far better

than succumbing to the many moods

of a northwestern moon

I wonder what you'd think

in the face of such enormity

would you sit silent

no need for voice

or would you pace the sand

overturn the rocks looking for reason

or the odd crab left behind

by those too hesitant to scratch

the surface

My lover hates power lines,

the way they barge through his sky,

as if he were the owner.

Still he hates them, distracts him,

his mind spins a bit faster with

the buzz running in the air

like some impatient fly

spinning around the glass waiting

for the picnic to move to the grass,

so he can climb inside.

In the same respect he loves trees,

the way they scent his air,

as if he holds special claim.

Still he loves them, they calm him,

the way they are about lending shade

without a single thought. Not like people,

with their penchant for measuring this and that.

He didn't care for them,

and rightly so when the corner tree

is struck clean through the middle

with power lines, as if man had finally

gotten his fingers in every bowl

only to find once is never enough.

Suddenly I am less terrified to be your daughter

A little less ashamed of how tangled we became,

those two years after my son.

Grown as a tree might

grafted in some horticultural design.

Suddenly, I know I am yours

as I know he is mine

How innocent we all become

when it's that simple; how horrible

to have found it now. Maybe it's the lighting

in here today, or the unnerving way you all

sound alike on the phone when I call

and your brother(s), son(s) answers.

Perhaps it's your leaving so soon,

so soon after I'm not so terrified to be your daughter.

I am a little shaky, my feet aren't quite my own,

rather like roots in new dirt, fingering around

for a solid grip.

Maybe it is just the lightening in here tonight,

or the air with it's musky feel,

or perhaps it really is you leaving so soon,

so soon after I am not so terrified to be your daughter.

Yesterday I drove to the snow

. thought a bit of you

. a bit of me

and the clouds, huge,

pressed against the mountain,

seemed to be waiting for the sun

to back down so freely,

they could roam the sky.

I wonder, would you think them cowardly,

sitting on the mountain's edge

like Mother Nature's Cinderella,

alone at the ball

fingering a strand of pearls,

not quite comfortable

in the power of magic?

I prefer to think them polite,

standing down like the step sisters would have

if Cinderella had once, found her voice.

You, my darling, would see yourself

the sun, the hero

asking only the chance

to share the sky