Scrawled graffiti on my brain.
I’m tired. My garden is dying
and waiting for rain. I’m sore
and losing the words that capture
my feelings. Boxes, blankets,
windows, seashells: the hermit crabs
of my thoughts scuttle barebacked
across the hot sand.
I needed the ocean…
…you shared with me the riddle
your ancestors passed down in secret—
if I solved it, you told me,
I would understand
everything—
it will sound too easy,
but wait, you warned me—
soon I’ll realize
that life itself
is happening
solely for this mystery
so I observed the clouds first—
since that’s where water came from,
but they told me to look to the ocean…
I’ve uncorked the perfume
today, of the day we first met.
I needed it. It was all blue:
oxygen and azulene,
neroli and pine trees,
jet fuel and you, always clean
even after strangers touched you…
The word sounds like a Christmas cookie:
patterns pressed in the firm dough of me
with a carved rolling pin of impressions
like the Springerle my sisters and I made as children,
baked in the hot oven of intention
too many times, too many batches,
too many burnt offerings, all this waste.
Knowing when something is over
isn’t an ending of love,
which has no beginning or end—
and nothing—not anger, or even indifference
can erase these stories written in Sharpie ink…
Today I forgot I need walls.
I had to park my car
and walk to the post office.
I left my agoraphobia
behind in the hot back seat,
balled up with my sweatshirts
when I grabbed my cane.
Google lied. I thought it was closer.
One more block;
one more block.
My knees parse the distance…
