The Many Forms of Gone
The keys that once opened the door to your home—gone.
The birthday where everyone you loved was alive.
The border wasn’t a border before a man drew a line.
Gone are the spaces where we were all free to roam.
And the skyline transforms into a cacophony of shadows,
and the forest line becomes a little less dense.
More of us are alone now, minus the echo of past laughter.
We clean the clothes from our beloved’s closet, find
a donation place down the street.
Several species of birds, the fence around my childhood home,
my first school, my oldest sister.
Every seven years, the apple trees are netted with caterpillars.
Last year’s wildfires, acres of evergreens licked by flames.
Gone is the last bottle of bourbon we bought with my father.
Our recycling bin is littered with bottles, marking
empty evenings of beer.
Another marriage. Gone. As are the rings. Someone’s hand
on her hip. The shape of a kiss.
Gone is the ivy that wove its way through the cracks
of the fireplace into the living room, even though the bricks
still hold its silhouette.
Each autumn, the trees remind us how brief our seasons are.
The rainstorm washes away the leaves from the street,
the child’s chalk drawing of a flower,
handwritten words I love you dissolving into the drain.
Reply. Or Better, Be with Me
Dear Reader, did you notice the bees
today? Busy in their dandelion duvet,
their world of delight, while we devour
the ghosts in the snowberries.
I pray anxiously these days, say—
Text me when you’re home,
Text me when you’re a homing pigeon,
Sext me when you’re holy.
You cry in a weedheavy garden—
I want wild nights!, but look,
we’re tucked together, blossomtight.
Let me take your hand along this path—
your palm = my favorite trail.
And maybe you lost someone you love
this year, and you hear them
in wildflowers you tried to name.
It’s true, the ones we love still speak
to us. Dear Reader, we've searched
so long for each other, can we unfurl
together, fearlessly open? Unbutton
what holds you back and fling it
across the sky’s room. Ego migration.
Dear Reader, is it too soon to tell you,
I adore you? Your belt, declaring:
don’t settle, and I add down for our feather-
touch, the owls of us. Let’s reclaim the day,
the slant of light that’s fading. We’re here
for an eyeblink with our bonfire hearts.
So much wanting—but before we leap
into the fire together, let’s watch
confetti moths reveal what we need to know
in this brief blaze—
carry me hold me love me
carry me hold me love me carry me hold me, love.
Note: Title was taken from a line in the Emily Dickinson poem “Bee! I’m expecting you! (1035)”
The Ouija Board Said, We’re Floating Like Rilke
Said—All dead things soon. Said—We hair.
Tonight, I have more than I ever had
and still feel loss. Tonight, we blind taste-tested
vodka—France won. The cheapest of the three.
The Oujia board said—Belief autumn. Said—
Afternoon fairy of foxglove. Said—Forgive magnanimously.
I asked—monogamously? Another article
on how to look younger, how to have the body
of a twenty-something. My brain skinny-dips
in the ocean, has a hot girl summer without leaving
my skull. Magenta child. Otherworldly.
Keep your cigars out of my creativity.
The Ouija board says—Love us
as foolish gods. Says—Late summer fireflies.
My goddess, my godliness, we gave our power away.
If the voices in your head still speak to you, make them
show you who they are.
