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Grain of Salt
SMACK.
And just like that, I clattered to the floor, my insides spilling out in embarrassing fashion across the cold linoleum. I rolled a bit, teetering back and forth, then fell still.
“What in bloody hell?” I heard a man’s voice grumble. I spotted a wrinkled, jittery hand, reaching down for me, inching closer, closer, closer…
SMACK. A flash of perfectly manicured bright pink fingernails flitted across my field of vision, swatting away the wrinkled hand and swooping my white plastic body up in a single jerky motion.
“Poison, Dad,” said the young woman who was now clutching me with a death grip. She slammed me down on the table between them. “You want another damn heart attack?”
“Grain of salt, sweetheart,” said the white-haired man, his voice playful.
She sighed and shook her head. “This isn’t a joke.”
“Honey.” He reached toward her with his bear paw.
“No,” she said firmly, pulling her fingers away and raising them to her left temple. “I can’t have this conversation again. My head hurts.”
“Eat something,” the man said, gently sliding a bowl of plain oatmeal toward her and accidentally knocking me over with his bulging knuckles.
Lying there on my side, I saw her face. It looked ragged, older than its 20-something years with dark circles around brown eyes, betraying chaos inside.
“Nah, my stomach’s been off,” she said, her face suddenly looking paler. I watched her dark ponytail swish as she turned around and squinted at a clock on the diner's far wall.
“Almost 8:30. Gotta go teach,” she said, jumping up and grabbing a rolled-up yoga mat from under the table.
“Lindsay, doll,” said the man, concern growing in his voice as he beckoned to the dimly lit parking lot. “It’s 8:30 p.m. P.M.”
“Wait, but…” the woman said, trailing off. A nod. “Yes, of course. I taught this morning.”
“You did,” said the man. “Here, take some,” he said, pushing a half-eaten $3.99 diet plate of egg whites and cantaloupe toward her. She sat down slowly, her eyes welling with tears.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me lately,” she said. She didn’t move when her father took her hand this time.
“It’ll be fine,” he said, reaching over to stand me upright and slide me towards her.
That’s when she looked straight at me. And instantly, I knew. Her headache. Nausea. Confusion. It wasn’t something I’d seen much in my days here at the Big Rig Diner in Tallahassee, but there it was written all over her face, plain as day.
Salt deficiency.
She’d been decrying me as poison for years, worrying about her father, perpetually afraid genetics would take her too down the road of diabetes and heart failure.
She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want him to die. And so she had cast me out—to dangerous extremes—imagining that removing me from her life would ward off the inevitable. Now she was wasting away with alarming alacrity.
She stared at me curiously, a realization dawning, then coming into focus: moderation.
“Grain of salt?” her father asked again, pushing me toward her. She smiled weakly.
Shake, shake, shake.
Tick... Tick... Tick.
You happen upon a strange pocket watch. You pick it up, dust it off, and tap it a couple times. It’s ticking normally. You pull the crown and everything around you freezes. You press it back into place and normalcy returns. Amazed, you wind it forward, then backward, and impossibly, the world speeds up, then rewinds. Time is now yours to control.
But it isn't.
not really.
Because time doesn't have rules.
It doesn't make sense.
It doesn't follow patterns.
It doesn't tell you what it means.
Time likes to change its mind.
And sometimes forward means back
and back means forward.
And sometimes start is stop, and stop is start
and the world begins to fall apart
because you were there
but also here
and once this happened, but it changed
you changed
time changed
but time doesn't change
it doesn't follow rules
so it happened and it didn't happened
all at the same time
and time didn't understand
and it didn't like being meddled with.
It didn't want to stop and move,
rewind and move forward,
start, and stop,
up and down, back and forth,
across the timeline of the world
and eventually time grew angry enough
was changed one too many times
by your hand on that strange pocketwatch
and time acts
it fizzles and pops
it goes back to that day
where you first dusted it off
and time changed
and you never picked up a pocketwatch
never dusted it off
never moved back and forth
never stopped
never started
and time went on.
Tick...Tick... Tick.
Constant.
Unchanged.
On and on and on...
Tick... Tick... Tick.
ODE TO CAT
for Jasper
Oh, you
magnificent creature,
fierce predator,
fiercer napper.
you who have seen
far less seasons than me
but are still older,
I salute you.
The Egyptions were right all along;
you truly are a wonder
in every way you differ from
your massive ancestors:
how you are delicate
yet fearsome.
If there is a heaven,
it’s made just for cats
since you are our rightful rulers.
Instead of golden streets,
there are rows and rows of cardboard boxes
and soft blankets
and warm milk
and seas full of tuna.
And there,
you,
beautiful, wise, and spiritual cat,
are stretched out
and napping.
You, who can bathe
without a bath,
who can ask a question
without making a sound,
Where you are,
everyone is king
in his own right.
If I could tell you one thing,
I’d tell you thanks
for being here
even when you weren’t
thank you for staying
and never running away,
thank you for listening
and for talking,
thank you for not complaining
when I pulled you closer.
May there be many streams
in your cat-heaven,
may there be blankets
and many friends for you to meet.
Years never meant much to you,
but may there be infinitely more to come,
and sunlight.
warm patches of it.
just for you.
Funeral Weather
Pikes Peak, her favorite mountain, stands tall, out to impress, commanding through the window, brightened with the shining sun, there for her, one final day.
Pikes Peak, enshrouded by clouds, presence unknown, a marked absence, snow falls, the day is dark, “funeral weather” her friend Betty says.
Puddles
It’s been a year and a day
Since her daughter, that bright
Spot in her life, her everything, has
Left her, leaving a dark hole, and a deep
Pit where love, hope, and warmth
Once resided. She knows her
Daughter didn’t leave her
By choice and that every-
One dies, but it still
Hurts so much,
She cries a lot
At night.
The rain came last night,
Leaving puddles on the asphalt,
Shimmering in their glory like a thousand
Puddles of molten silver, rippling and lapping over
The edges of their confines, and she wonders
If her daughter’s soul wasn’t like that,
Wanting to get out but never being
Freed from its prison until now,
And as she looks at the water,
She thinks of how her
Daughter liked to
Jump in them,
But now she is gone,
Her life is but the passing
Ripple on the surface of a silver
Puddle that remains unchanged by all
Her daughter as done. It hurts to
Think this, but she knows it is
True in the general sense, but
That even after the ripples
Fade, her daughter’s
Legacy lives on.
Fear Me
Fear me, for I have cried,
a thousand tears beaneth your feet.
The same tears you will mop
tomorow.
Fear me, for I have screamed,
a thousand years into the night.
The same screams you will hear
in sorrow.
Teach me to stop dragging my skin
roughly across the past, so it may tear
like paper, because it is so thin.
Teach me a door may be opened without
a key, whether it be locked or not.
Ask me how I got this far in a single step,
taken again
and again
and again.
Feminists Save Women
As a woman, I am ever so grateful
Feminists before me, their hearts so full
Perplexed as to why women weren't treated as humans
Fought for us, to stand beside the man
I fight for and with feminists and approve of their message
Because I simply depend on it
And if I ever have a daughter, I'd want her to grow up being a feminist too.
Goodbye, Paris
i. 9am at the airport
I remember a year ago
When you went to France
And I wanted to tell you something but I didn't
Because I was afraid it would ruin your trip.
I told you a month later
And I still probaby ruined your day.
You remember it every time you see me.
You remember it, and how it hurt you
And now you pull your hand away
Every time I get too close.
It hurts me, too,
But it felt unfair not to tell you.
And we don't ever talk about it.
ii. 4pm on the plane to Philly
It's silent and all I can hear is European sirens
and how their backwards ring has become familiar somehow;
I wonder how long it'll take to forget them completely.
It's amazing to think that I've experienced so much
And now I'm just going to go back.
Back, and everything will be the same but different.
I'll still get nervous while ordering food,
But for different reasons.
Goodbye, Paris.
Goodbye, Eiffel tower and Notre Dame Cathedral,
Opera house, metro, Louvre,
Goodbye, statues
And goodbye to all the poems I lost
whilst walking through your streets:
words I remembered for a time
but was too tired to write.
Goodbye, 4pm.
Nights and days will be different now.
Hello, stress
I can't say I miss you
(you never really left.)
Hello, violin
I miss the sound of your voice,
I only hope my hands remember how to hold you-
Hello, friends, family
I haven't begun to miss you until now
but I'll tell you I missed you the whole time.
Hello, Love.
I haven't forgotten you,
not completely:
only
your face,
your eyes,
your
laugh.
Debris
You've always been drawn to the broken,
Junkyard trash salvaged and transformed,
Dismantled and reassembled into perfection.
Maybe that's why you chose me,
Collecting my fractured pieces in jars
And storing them away for reassembly.
But I am no puzzle.
My pieces will never fit again flawlessly.
Jagged edges exposed and cracked surfaces
Leave you searching for the girl beneath the wreckage
As if the girl standing before you needs perfecting.
Can you not find the beauty in the damage?
Can you not see the strength in the stitches that bridge the cracks?
You're waving fragments like white flags,
Jars opened for operation,
But I never asked for reassembly.
I only wanted to know if you could love the scars.
#poetry #scars
What Can I Do?
I don’t even know
What I want
Who I am
Who I will be
Who I want to be
What am I going to do
With the rest of my life?
That is all my parents seem to care about
How are you going to survive in this world?
I want to be a writer
It’s a crazy, impossible thought
I know the chances of it happening are slim
But it’s what I want more than anything
I don’t love anything else
I don’t want to spend my life doing anything else
I wouldn’t be happy
Doesn’t that matter?
My dad laughed when I told him
My mom said it’s because he doesn’t work to be happy
He goes to a job that he hates every day because it pays
He runs away from things that are too hard
He only lasted a week in college
He doesn’t understand what I am willing to do
To make my dream come true
I would live in a tiny apartment
With almost nothing
If it meant I could be a writer
I am willing to suffer because if I can write,
It doesn’t matter
I will be happy
That’s all I want
I know I can do it like I am now
Just on the side
But the problem with that is there is nothing else for me to do
I can’t be a teacher
I can’t be an engineer
I can’t be a scientist
I have yet to find something else I would even for a second consider
But no one gets it
No one knows that this is all I have
I’m not good at a lot of things
This is something I’m actually kind of okay at
And that I love
I will find a way
To make it happen
I have to