but my heart is not the sidewalk

the summer before I broke my heart in the way that you can only do when you are still entirely whole--unaware that there will be trees that need to come up through your pavement—I spent it driving back and forth across town in the middle of the night.

it wasn't dark yet.
is that a metaphor, or just geography?
the pavement at home heaves from the frost.
but this is also not a metaphor: the winter always kept me whole.

once, on the way home, we stopped for breadsticks. there was a friend with a new tattoo who needed a ride to the airport;
but that's mostly unremarkable--there is always a friend with a new tattoo who needs a ride to the airport.
or, a correction: there always used to be a friend with a new tattoo who needed a ride to the airport.
maybe that's why it was remarkable.
because here you can take the train to the airport.

listen:
there is a reason the sidewalk sacrifices itself for the trees.
the trees here are old and tall.
the leaves are always green.

in May, the jacaranda stains the sidewalk purple.
in October, the olives need to be shaken off their branches.

but my heart is not as solid as the sidewalk,
and it still hurts some days.

materials may be renewed for two weeks at a time

Everything here smells like a library book:
the cutlery drawer in the kitchen,
the blankets on the couch, and even
the potted succulents next to the window.

It smells like a library book, and
reminds me that it's not mine forever--
that holding on too long
costs twenty-five cents a day.

excerpt from East Coker by T.S. Eliot

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.

-T.S. Eliot, "East Coker," from *The Four Quartets* 

r e s i l i e n c e

"Struggle isn’t tragedy. It is necessary to say this because too often the former is conflated with the latter. And too often we create false narratives around struggle; we say that people have “overcome” their circumstances or “overcome” their struggles, when in reality people often manage to survive their circumstances by way of the very mettle or knowledge gained through the circumstances themselves."

-Ayana Mathis, On Impractical Urges

when all you need is time, marching forward slowly

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.

wildfires

on tuesday, it rains.
it is good news to hear among the updates your mom relays on the phone.
the relief in her voice is a welcome guest who has hung up his coat and will stay for dinner.

she tells you:
1. did you know that the neighbour's daughter got into art school? she's graduating in the spring.
2. it finally rained, you know, and we've all stopped coughing. your brother has resumed marathon training and your dad has stopped rubbing his eyes.
3. the grocery store has finally switched to summer hours.

it rains, and the chalk fades.
the neighbour's daughter, who just got into art school, redraws the hopscotch course for her little brother.
someone sends you a picture.
each number is a different animal--the three is a dragon. the seven is a stork.

it rains, and the wildfires go out.

a place you once loved has stopped burning.
a boy you once loved has stopped calling.
a game you once played has washed away.

on tuesday, timezones and oceans away,
you wake up to clear skies.

dropped stitch

in the end, my hands feel like they have been covered in honey.
this was nothing to be transcended.
this was bare feet in the river and hands sticky with avoiding promises.

in the end, i tugged so hard on loose threads
the whole hat came undone.
maybe i am your dropped stitch,
or maybe you are mine,
but now all either of us have is a mess of yarn.

it's summer anyway.
i wouldn't have used any sort of knitted anything for a long time anyway.

not so good at this

in the fall, i learned about writing things down that will never not be true.
sometimes this means that words are blue willow plates.
sometimes this means saying almost nothing at all.
sometimes it means waiting until something can be true before it can be said.
you learned no such thing.

in the corner of the diner you work at most nights,
the evening shift workers come in for coffee like clockwork.
you know their faces better than mine by now.
they ask you about your days,
and you fold dreams into their napkins.
mid-afternoon is all too often taken for granted,
you tell me when our kaleidoscopes match up for a moment.

i am sand stuck in a bathing suit.
i am a jellyfish sting on your leg.
you are salt water in my eyes.
i forgot the sunscreen. our sandwiches are hot.
there's only one water bottle.
you lost your sunglasses in the ocean.
the convenience store was out of all popsicle flavors except grape.
we are not so good at this.

i will never unfold napkin dreams at midnight.
i will write blue willow plate letters
and wait to send them until the sentiments feel true.
i will sometimes match my kaleidoscope to yours.
i will pass on the grape popsicles.
i will wait until i hang up to cry.

on my calendar this year

you are 16 feet tall.
in september, when you exhale, the leaves fall.
you are full of stories,
and slowly i am too--
one by one, lining the crooks of my arms
with moments i shouldn't know about,
forgetting that once i used to
use my arms to pull myself up
onto rooftops
and tree branches
and sides of the pool--
instead of holding on.

in january, when you cry,
the snow melts. on bad days,
sometimes i can see grass,
dead and brown. it's too soon for spring.
you are as tall as the cherry tree
my mom planted 8 years ago,
you don't know what you're doing to the ground.

in july, when we go swimming in the lake,
the water level rises.
just enough that we lose our lunch,
which was left carelessly close to the shore.
i forget that i used to eat before swimming,
you are busy floating on your back, and do not notice.

all year, i will love you.
all year, i will wade through your rivers,
even when my rainboots have holes in them and
my feet are cold.
all year, i will tell you about
the weather
the candle my roommate just bought
the song i heard on the bus in the morning
what i made for dinner
what i would have made for you, if you were here too.

all year, i will wonder if the 10 and a half extra feet you have on me is making this too complicated.
i will wonder sometimes if it's better not to melt the snow;
if it's better to not even bother swimming, and just eat lunch at home in my kitchen.
all year, i will wonder if i should use my arms for climbing again,
and just let go.

roadtrip promises

if you take the wheel, i will spread out this map
we bought at the gas station 15 miles ago
and tell you which way to go.

i will hold your hand when we're out of the city
and there are no more stoplights or traffic.

i will say "just one more hour, i think!"
even though i'm not so good at predictions.

i will peel you an orange,
shell pistachios for you,
unwrap granola bars for you.

i won't change the music if i don't want to,
but i'll consider your feedback.

for every farm animal we pass, you get one point;
for every orchard, i get one.

on nights when we have to keep going,
i'll take over the driving. you can stretch out in the backseat.
i'll listen to the news to stay awake.
when you wake up at 4:30 a.m. and ask if i want to switch,
ask if the empty roads are getting lonely,
ask if i want company,
i'll tell you it's ok, i don't mind so much,
the sun will be coming up soon anyway.
we'll get there soon anyway.

questions asked too late

is this what you meant? hands deep in your pockets, shoulders drawn forward, like you were holding too tight onto enough spare change to buy two-flavor ice cream swirl insides? i couldn't tell. can't tell. will never get a chance to tell. in the end, no one said "don't go." no one stood on a chair and asked the ceiling fan why girls have arms like pine trees, when so much changes anyway? why boys who tell tumbling stories with all the rushing force of the river's current in april are still always evaporating? it's why i took so many pictures that spring. it's why i never learned how to do a cartwheel. it's why i left my snow boots in the basement. so i would have a reason to come back eventually, if all my other reasons had moved on. that summer, the nights were too bright to hide all my blushing. instead of holding on, you let me go in a parking lot in the middle of the day. i tripped on a pothole walking back to my mom's honda, but it wasn't enough to stop me.

now there is a new kitchen

the straps of my tanktop don't stay up for long.
there is too much pointing to do.
my shoulders are in constant use
(but not because you are here,
telling stories loudly;
reaching out for emphasis).

i save up my moments for emails,
but it doesn't come through the same
when there are no interruptions.
the light makes all the edges blurry anyway.

i don't want to out-grow this.
i want the mud on my boots to last forever,
even if i feel out-of-place sometimes.

i haven't figured out yet if i should measure time
in teaspoons or teapots.
either way, i'll spill it all over the floor,
and memories will get mopped up like milk.

eventually, new sandpaper will smooth me out,
and all my corners will fit nicely.
someone else will sit across the table.
when i leave, i won't push the chair back in.

recycled cardboard

i wonder sometimes,
if i hold a sign up reading "home,"
scrawled on the torn off side of
the box your brother's speakers came in,
while standing on someone else's roadside--

boots unlaced,
hair undone,
insides untied--

where i'll end up these days?

it's not my intention anymore,
to figure out where hitchhikers will take me.

just to find home somewhere other than your kitchen table,
or on the extra bicycle your parents got, so visitors could join them on the bike trail at a moment's notice.
or in the extra toothbrush you kept around, or in knowing my favorite tea was always in your cabinet.

i have nightmares sometimes,
that i won't recognize anywhere.

someone's aunt will ask,
"sugar, what have you been up to these days?"
and i will pull my sweatshirt zipper up and down,
hoping that the length of my hair won't give anything away.
you know,
just
here
and there,
this and
that,
i guess.

how to leave

1.

do not start by estimating damages,
contemplating insurance,
wrapping your edges in old newspaper.
there will be enough time
to put furniture polish on your new scratches later.
the moving company promises nothing will break beyond repair.

2.

hold your breath,
and fold up your sweaters.
take off your shoes,
and kiss a boy who won't wait.
who will unbraid the promises in your hair,
and hold your hand until one of you goes.

3.

melt ice cubes on your skin to remind yourself
that once you were the only thing around above freezing.

4.

open your arms
as easily as you opened your passport
when the agent at border control
asked why you were here
at 7 a.m., after thousands of miles,
you adjusted the hem of your last clean shirt
and told the truth:
it was time.

postage stamp

when did i become a postage stamp?
when did i become one inch tall and marked by home,
so no matter how far i go, everyone will always know these legs are far more used to wading through snow than waiting on subway platforms.
when did i leave my neatly organized page of 35 other stamps, all of us uniform in the conviction that One Day We Will Go Somewhere?
here’s the thing about leaving:
you find out exactly where your edges are,
but first you have to peel yourself away,
and it’s too much, sometimes, to figure out everything that you’re not.

vitals

when she takes the thermometer
it reads: 97.1.
slightly colder than average,
but still in a window that's normal.

break up season

i am your coat cast aside.
bare you arms to the sun.
can you feel gravel through
the soles of your boots?
this is what it feels like
to lose me.
years ago, we stood on silty riverbanks.
and i leaned close enough
to read the ink on your arms.
they felt like bathroom stall promises.
they always made me curious.
i confess:
imleavingimleavingimleaving.
it's april, and dead grass and i
are uncovering our souls,
and you have all the time and sunshine
in the world.

love letter

your arms could be birch trees,
they are covered in so many scratches.
usually you are too tall for me,
we never see eye to eye.
and your branches are
not strong enough to bear my weight.
you live in the cold,
and it's hard to love you.
but it's spring now--
when the birch sap runs--
and i am here with my spile.

rules

1.

cut off all your hair at least once.
because everything moves too fast to get attached
and vanity is just a prop to hide behind.

2.

try not to fall in love with the first boy
who’s poetry you accidentally find when he’s not looking.
or the first boy who plays john mayer on his guitar,
whose e string has been restrung more times than you’ve been kissed.

3.

go on more adventures.
there are no boys or hair to weigh you down.

4.

jump in a lake fed by glaciers, one that’s barely 33 degrees.
just to know that you can handle the cold.
one day, someone will accuse you of having a frozen heart,
and it’s good preparation to know what it is really like to have frozen insides.

5.

lie on your side and fill all the negative space your curves make
with all the broken promises you’ve been told,
and mix them with salt water from the nearest coast
you were never too sweet, you were never there to be liked--
you were there to grow sturdy and tall;
never mind the whisper of forrest fires.
 

thanks

thanks for being one of too many voices
talking at once, sharing ideas like water drops,
mixing melodies--shattering silence.

thanks for pink walls/children's books/
rearranged furniture/familiarity etched
in 4 years of gradual change.

thanks for midnight texts.
for midnight snacks.
for midnight visits, midnight laughs, midnight walks,
a midnight friendship.