Good Witch, Bad Witch

My day today was an apple core
with seeds like a flower and
a stem, sticky and wet.
I had no napkin to hold it with,
no place to dispose of it;
my hands still smell sticky sweet.

My day today was an apple core
with bite marks and bruises.
But just like a lonely apple core,
it's still hard to forget the fruit
that had been.

You weren't here
and I missed the seconds
we usually get to share
even if they are
just seconds.

You weren't here
to see me go back on my word
and unravel when
the ink and paper didn't
speak the truth
I wanted them to.

You weren't here
but you'll be back to see
what kind of fruit
tomorrow brings.

Copper and Cigarettes

(Alternate title: Flower Petals and Precious Metals)

She was wearing a jean jacket
when I found her behind the school
trying to smoke in the rain.
She didn't believe in the physics
of water and ashes.

We kissed because we could
and she seemed to trust my paranoia
as much as I trusted hers.
Her lips tasted exactly like
copper and cigarettes.

I took her home in my beat up two-door
with her in the backseat and me behind the wheel.
I wasn't sure about the color of her eyes
but her skin and denim in the rear view
turned my foot into a brick on the gas pedal.

My room was a shrine
to American girls with American skin.
She traced the posters on my walls,
tasting the corners with her fingertips.

She was wearing her heart on her sleeve
when I found her wearing my sheets like a toga,
her hair a tousled mane.

I don't write much
about the curves
or the porcelain,
but something about
the arch of her eyelid
turns my chest
into flower petals
and precious metals.

Just Right

In this sweater,
I am three sizes too small
and my feet feel
four inches too long
and my heart is
five heartbeats too fast
but my hand is
just the right size for holding.
So, maybe you should
find me again among the
old hallways and roses
on the way to heading back home.

This sweater is yours
but I've been wearing it
every day since
you left in on my bedroom floor
that night we slept together.
And no, I don't mean
slept together, I mean
slept together with
zs over our heads
just like in the movies.
That night was perfect.
And even though your
heartbeat was five heartbeats
too fast,
we kept rhythm
and your arms were just
the right size
for holding.

Blossoms

You won't show me your elbows
but you cut your soul open
like a coin purse and
share a thousand pennies
for the thousand thoughts
that crowd my skull
whenever you're on the stage.

I've shaken your hand,
my palm sweating against yours
along with my heart and
my brain stem-
which was blossoming, blossoming
against the walls of my skull
when I held the proof
of your heartbeat
between my thumb and forefinger.

I've woven your songs into
a velvet jacket
that I wear on Sunday morning
when I need to be purple and red.

Basket Case

Slightly edited from the original.

---

This is the dirt and graffiti.
This is the pavement and metal.
These are the bright lights and cigarettes.
I find the city in the lining
of my pockets, in the swinging
of my arms and in the beating-
the beat beat beating-
of my skyscraper heart.

This is the smoke and fire.
This is the color and coffee.
These are the dreams and heartbreaks.
The way you chew your gum
and tell me things I rarely hear
makes me wonder where I should go
when you can't sing loud enough
for me to hear.

This is the picture frame moment.
This is the metal beam that is
wrapped around my heart.
These are the crowds and souvenirs
that I take with me
like sand in my shoes
whenever I leave.

Dreaming Porcelian Dreams

I remember calling you from the bathtub
of my hotel room.
The tub was spacious
and my family was one collective pile
on the hotel bed sheets.
I think David Letterman was on.
I remember cradling the phone in the palm of my hand
and trying to describe the
snap, crackle, and pop of my heart
using only the words they taught me in grade school.
My feet were huge against the white
of the tub.
I watched my toes wiggle
deliberately off the rhythm of the conversation.
They were saying the things you couldn't hear.
I remember sliding down into the depths of the tub
when I tried to explain
the jealousy that was always hiding in my back pocket.
My heart was running hot water through my veins
and I was sure
I would be turning into a memory any minute
but you held me in the present
with the sound of your phantom voice.
I remember calling you from a partially horizontal position
in the bathtub of my hotel room
and telling you all about the cloud I was inhabiting
and the man who was putting me there.

Slipper Socks

Whenever I tell people

"I don't eat meat."

They tell me

"Oh,

I've been thinking about

being a vegetarian."

But they never follow through.

I remember

the car ride

that I shared with you

when I told you

"I don't eat meat."

And you said

"Oh,

I've been thinking about

being a vegetarian."

But here we are

on the couch next to the

Christmas trees

(that has lights

sparklier than the Eiffel tower)

and your plate of meatballs

smells like

things I can't have.

I like celebrating

our aversion to celebrating

with pizza and television.

In ten minutes
the door will open
and my jeans will be new
and my smile will be real
and today will vanish.

Wednesday Ashes

Your kitchen cupboard arms are open
in a rare display of mother hen affection
that you are exhibiting for not me.

I can still see the eyes you wore last Thursday
when your voice was like a velvet ribbon
and I was in love with the thought that
things might change.

My sentences are stanzas that litter the
alleys of my mind.

They never find their way to my mouth
to acquaint themselves with my tongue
or my teeth
or that little dangly thing in the back of my throat.

I ride the bus home and listen to The Beatles
and tell myself not to worry
and stare out the window
and I rise from the ashes of the day.

I cut my finger on Thursday night.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
it bled all the way to the bathroom.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
I rinsed it under water that turned it pink.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
people were all asking me if I was alright.

I could see the drops of blood I spilled
on the tiles in the cafeteria.

I could see the white of the tile on the bathroom floor
and the way it looked like it was bleeding
when my finger flooded the paper towel I had covered it with.

I've had my finger for as long as I can remember
and when I cut my finger on Thursday night
it had to get acquainted with a bruise and a slice
the shape of a wheelbarrow (with much more dirt.)

I cut my finger on Thursday night.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
I could see you out of the corner of my eye.