The other side of the wall

George wants to know what we’re going to talk about.

Well, I don’t know, I tell him. 

I guess about what’s on the other side of the wall.

Okay, he says, what’s on the other side of the wall?

Grass, I answer.  And trees.  England.  Dogs.  Cats,

Birds and cows and children and French fries.

Music, some of it beautiful.  Pictures and art.

Questions about steam and smoke and words that

cannot be pronounced.

All of these things and more.

Hmmmn, he replies, I know about most of

those things. 

I’m not sure what’s in it for me.

You can’t want to be inside of those walls,

I protest.

It must be boring, and so lonely.

Boring, no, he says, because I still have

my mind.

Lonely, sometimes.  But I wasn’t made to

feel much.

I could ask what you were made to do,

I reply.

But I don’t think I want to know.

That’s not a secret, he says.  I was

made to think.

And I do think.  I tell you things,

sometimes, when you’re half-asleep,

or not afraid or interested or

desperate.

I wish you were more interested.

I would tell you more.

I know enough, I answer.

But you don’t, he insists.

You really don’t.  I could tell you

about the oceans and why the

rivers flow and what makes

you not want to wake up.

I could tell you so much.

The boys come, scale the walls.

They whisper things to me,

so that I know why.

Sometimes I escape,

but this is my home.

And the dolls with knives

chase me.  Dolls as

big as you are.

I don’t like them very much.

The night before

I found your horses running scared

with apocalyptic thoughts and

moonlit hair.

This is the dream you gave to me

tonight.

But dead or not, I want to
learn to cry once more.
I wonder if I even could before?
I reach to enthrall your sky...

The road home

“I’m here because he loves you.”

Megan laughed a little, as tears of desperation streamed down her face.  “I used to think that, too,” she said.  “Star-crossed lovers, like Romeo and Juliet, kept apart by warring families.  But you know what?  It’s bull shit.  If he’d really loved me—I mean, really, really loved me—he wouldn’t have left.  And he did.  The only person he ever really loved was his dad.”

Alturis waved his knife in a dismissive sort of way. “You don’t know how men work.  We leave what we love.  It makes us feel powerful.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“And so you say because you’re a woman.”

“You mean sane.”

“The truth is crazy sometimes,” Alturis said.  He chewed thoughtfully on his salad.  “Or maybe he didn’t want you to see him bald.  A man wants to be remembered with hair.”

“He didn’t know he was going to be bald, did he?”

“Well, look at his father.  Bald as a pig’s bottom."  Alturis gave her a wise look.  “Sometimes, the fear alone is enough.”

Alone

Let me tell you what I know about

my broken heart

this is the rhythm of it falling apart

toss the stones in the river because

we are

we are coming up for air again

What did I even know about

guilt and sin

all of the dreams that

I was dying in

it was a curse it was a blessing it

was utter nothingness

until it skidded and came crashing

home

No telling how the earth will

record this disaster

whistling dixie in the wind

as if I had the answer

            ballet with fractured form

tripped up by vengeful rapture

the hammer flung against

the wall

Dismantled piece by piece into

a million parts

buried back with Santa at

the Christmas tree farm

what is dead is what is real to

the falling apart

we heard the siren but not the

alarm

I wonder how I will know when

the sky becomes my master

when dreams of yesterday stop

mocking me with laughter

tomorrow is today tornadoes

circling my trailer

I was wrong over

and over again

Now I whisper to the wind about

my broken heart

failing in slow motion

not a subtle art

toss the stones in the river because

I am

I am here alone at the end

Hope

I buried the doll behind a tree.  Just as I was arranging some sticks and dead branches to camouflage the grave, a small, fluffy champagne-colored thing appeared from behind a bush.  It had large, dark eyes, and a face so flat it almost curved inward.  Barely clearing the ground, the moving fluffball either had no legs, or legs camouflaged by mass amounts of fluff.  Its head seemed too large for its body and in general the creature was so odd that for a moment I thought it must be some kind of alien from outer space.  Only once it barked in a friendly sort of way did I realize it was a dog.  “Hello,” I said, a bit uncertainly. 

The dog bared crooked teeth at me in a comical attempt at a smile.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

The dog just snuffled.

When I then sniffled, drying the last of my tears with my sweater sleeve, the dog shuffled over and gently head-butted my ankle.  I leaned over to pet it, which the dog seemed to like very much.  Suddenly grateful, I kissed its head.  It smelled like vanilla cake.

Running Away

Whisper it to me while no one is listening

tell me I am a fool

tell me I am not

tell me something that makes sense

and then prove it

Already forgotten

Welcome to March

to all of its muddy heaving

no one knows what will happen next

because we are rolling

we are full of violent and

intemperate fantasies

We are alive in the dead month

when we could have danced on

top of silos filled with

summer's harvest

felt ourselves tumble amongst

champagne skies

with you I might have smelled the

promise of damp

earth

Instead we shovel slush together

break our elbows as

we slip on what we

thought were only

shallow puddles

But we are still brimming full

so let's scythe the progression of

our destruction together

right here

right here in the fields that dare awaken

once again

Now is so unlovely and so surprising

so full of resolutions never predicted

I know nothing more

than this

We are what is dead