the summer after 11th grade, i promise myself i will never say anything untrue,
which is why i let you do all the talking and i fill in the gaps:
with laughter like precipitation (maybe hail, maybe something else)
and with questions, because there are so many things i am trying to figure out.
so many postage stamps i bought before i knew i wouldn't use them.
will this horizon swallow me whole as i run into it?
will anyone be on the other side?
when i hear that you write your grocery lists on pieces of scrap fabric
using a fabric pen from your sister,
and that quarters fall out of the sandwich bag that replaced your wallet in march,
i say a silent prayer:
thank god for pine needles and empty pasta sauce jars,
but sorry you lost your only pair of scissors.
sorry, because i took them,
and i used them to cut up the letters you sent me
i put the pieces in jars and the jars on the stairs outside
and it was so windy that dirt and pine needles blew in
and little insects made their homes in your words.
it was beautiful until it wasn't--when too much time had passed.
in the amount of time it takes to be able to answer the phone without my heartbeat pounding in my wrists, i manage to fall off a retaining wall twice and lose my wallet once.
i write eight poems and rip three of them up; i learn a new recipe for scones.
i keep my promise to never say anything untrue, which is why it takes so long.
i still have the scissors.
i still have precipitation laughter,
but my open sky questions mostly have answers now.
which is why i let you do all the talking and i fill in the gaps:
with laughter like precipitation (maybe hail, maybe something else)
and with questions, because there are so many things i am trying to figure out.
so many postage stamps i bought before i knew i wouldn't use them.
will this horizon swallow me whole as i run into it?
will anyone be on the other side?
when i hear that you write your grocery lists on pieces of scrap fabric
using a fabric pen from your sister,
and that quarters fall out of the sandwich bag that replaced your wallet in march,
i say a silent prayer:
thank god for pine needles and empty pasta sauce jars,
but sorry you lost your only pair of scissors.
sorry, because i took them,
and i used them to cut up the letters you sent me
i put the pieces in jars and the jars on the stairs outside
and it was so windy that dirt and pine needles blew in
and little insects made their homes in your words.
it was beautiful until it wasn't--when too much time had passed.
in the amount of time it takes to be able to answer the phone without my heartbeat pounding in my wrists, i manage to fall off a retaining wall twice and lose my wallet once.
i write eight poems and rip three of them up; i learn a new recipe for scones.
i keep my promise to never say anything untrue, which is why it takes so long.
i still have the scissors.
i still have precipitation laughter,
but my open sky questions mostly have answers now.
