Poetry

I dream of lemon water and thunderstorms;
Hiding inside thinking of you.

A lemon seed stuck in my straw
Stops the flow of water to my mouth—
If only my flow of thoughts would
Stop coming back to you.

Five Mississippis between light and sound.
Light like the flutter in my chest; lips soft on mine.
Thunder like when you look away; you kiss her.

Porch light on outside
I watch through the window.
Mirroring the trees—shaking—under attack
By the vicious sky.
Rain. I shake, trying to release you

Damp, I drink my lemon water.
Choking on lemon seeds; light, sound, you—

His fault or mine.
Memory entangled in my neural circuits.
Here for good.

walk with me
where the sun never sets
i want to be
where the flowers are
blooming
take me to a place
where honey thrives
in the air and in
the rivers
i wonder what
it is like to be
a dandelion

standing proud
in a field
of marigolds

Even when the air conditioning breaks in the middle of August I can’t sleep without a blanket. To feel swaddled enough to slip into that vulnerable state. Unless it was truly crucial, evolution would have done away with sleep centuries ago. Lion cubs stolen from their mothers’ dens, soldiers’ throats sliced in foxholes–all under the light of the moon. I slept so much as a baby my parents worried. Sometimes, still, after I jump into the deep end, I let myself drift for a second, or two, my feet above my head–I am merely a blurry projection on a screen, an idea in your head, a something of the future. Support her neck when you hold her–pretending I am safe again.