Poetry

I paint this page with words
So eloquent each stroke. Precise.
Strategic in exposing the hidden dirt.
And in the darkest of corners, shine this light.

I fill this page with words
In hopes to empty this heart—
Of mine. So resilient to the hurts,
the crimes, leaving the toughest stains and marks.

I pack this page with words; in
love, onto leaf I transfer these transgressions
When pen kisses paper, I deliver these burdens
Released repression, pain provoked obsessions, my confessions.

I burn this page of words
Smile as smoke rises, goodbye caresses me
Only now am I able to move forward
No longer my pains but yours. I am free.

I see a trail of stars, sharpened arrows,
freeway lines and stop signs and street lights near,
the open road sings a song of sorrow.
I’d swim across the Atlantic you know,
oh the salt serpents and tritons I’d spear,
trailing sea stars with my sharpened arrow.
I’d crawl across the desert for you so
I’ll climb every mountain top without fear,
every still road sings a song of sorrow.
 
I envy the pilots and plane audio,
and red–eyed–luggage that sits in the rear.
Follow the trail of stars, cabin arrow.
I am wanderlust in your afterglow,
the world around us, just a spinning sphere.
Without, the road sings a song of sorrow.
My heart you stole, no one else could borrow
and yours I will hold, from far away dear,
for your eyes hold a trail of stars, arrows
pointing to the open road, sing us home.

Skipping stones on the Schuylkill, I am nearly nineteen when we
scramble down the slope-side of a muddy cliff. There is dirt etched
into the soles of my sneakers. On the riverside yellow ribbons mark
trees to be cut. One limb juts out of the earth like a question. At the
end of its most slender spindle hangs a frayed summer rope. It
swings in the cut of March winds. Still winter. We pass. My feet stick
fossils into soil. Look:

This is the tree we bent by pulling with all our
weight. This is the bridge where young teens edge each other into jumping. I
am unsure how they survive the fall into shallow water. He is unsure how they
survive the impact. If their bodies fell completely flat, would they bounce like a
stone? Yes and no. They need the right angle.

The right angle, he says, swaying back and forth on his
heels like a batter waiting for the pitch. The right angle, he leans back, then
throws a stone like a frisbee. It chips off the water, bouncing three times. He looks
at me expectantly. Nice throw. Thanks. He buries a stone into my palm. My turn?
Yes. I lead with my left foot, twisting my heel into the soft bank to feel more
legitimate. Weak shadow, cloudy day. I toss the stone effortlessly into the river. It
buries itself with an unsatisfying sink.

I don’t have his hands. My fingers aren’t calloused. My
tones are unbalanced and jaunty. He laughs, then plunges his hands into
the winter water, tossing stones over one another until he unearths the one.
He holds it up to show me, balancing the stone between his thumb and first
finger. Perfect shape, one that fits into my blunt palm. Flat, but with rounded
edges. Imperfect ridges on one side. Not like slate. Weathered rock,
knowing.

I take it in my hand and face water again.
Tuck my elbow back. Lean, but not too much. The right angle. I
toss my stone again. Watch as it drops like a
child leaping off a bridge, clumsy.

A hand at my shoulder. Blunt, capable
experience. Calloused, one that can pluck out a tune and send a
baseball flying. Visualize the trajectory. Imagine the slant of a rooftop, or
a lazy landscaped path. Behind him a stretch of sun gradients the river
brown, then back again. I tilt my head towards his, but I am not listening.