Time capsule (poem on a dead Skype account) ...

Maybe you find this, someday.

Whatever that day, I still love you.

My chest springs warm reading old, "I miss you!"s.

You always meant it there. If I could hug you,

Here, I would. If you ever want my voice again, I'll talk.

Some truths between us have turned

Distant in my mind. But my heart,

love ... my heart never forgot.

Blame and fault, they all fall away. And words we didn't

mean, or get to say – all waves I've rowed through.

Maybe you find this, someday.

Whatever that day, I still love you.

Ultipatum ...

                       I refuse to marry my father.

                        Whoever my partner may be—

   Please help me do better than I did with dad,

                                  And we'll partner happily.

              We'll listen to each others' full sentences,

                                      And always trust that, even

     If our words missed their mark, still they were

 Aiming at something we truly believe in.

And we'll both reassure each                   other,

 So our full, honest faces                     can show

     Without the dark paint  of                     insults,

        Thick mask of judgments, blocking   that flow.

We'll both name ourselves                     by our best parts:

“Beautiful”                “loving”                                “kind.”

               And we'll see the rest        as nothing but dust

                           to broom up      and toss behind.

Each morning – “Forget    that your breath smells
  pickled; I'm just glad           that you breathe.”

Each meal – “What we can't tolerate, hungry now,
         we'll laugh about          after we eat!”

Each evening – “Let go your day's tiredness, 

and drink in this peace:      you've returned.”

Each night – “Soon, I won't know where I am,

but I'll feel you close; that we've earned.”

The inevitable waste ...

I sewed for five years,   reluctantly.

Always hated         tying thread-ends                  

                                                 together.

Then a Russian man       showed me,

“Just roll them all         between your 

                                    fingers.”

So I licked the ends—

                               roll, fold, roll—

And those strands, 

    in trying to unwind,

formed a knot. 

          A solid knot. 

                    Every time.

“Such a waste!” 

I'm tempted to linger.

But start remembering

                                                          Hours I spent 

                                        slowly tying my shoes,

           While adults rolled their eyes.

And re-writing my loop-lettered name 

a thousand sloppy times.

                                                            Pain in my shoulder 

                                                   from before

                            I learned to lift weights right.

                Hot words I spit on people,

Before seeing “Oh, this problem's mine.”

                                                                                      A beautiful face, 

                                                                           I never talked to.

                                                            A question for my 

                                                  favorite old neighbor,

                                     I never asked. 

A plate of rich flavors 

            I waved away.

                    A trip to “When else?” 

                                      That I let pass. 

My mind could lose itself counting the holes.

But I'd just as soon fill myself double, where I'm going—

Wrapping my head, heart, and hands around

The inevitable waste of growing.

Prioriteeth ...

He spit out broken teeth

Over a kitchen table:

                                  A lapse in depth perception

                              As he chased the falling ladle.

He ran his tongue across the

Remainders, up to the dripping gum.

He calculated three teeth lost

                        And head-shook, 

                                                    “Done is done.”

He wiped the white shards into his hand,

Excused himself (bowing quickly),

Threw them into the bathroom can,

Then looked to the lit mirror, sickly:

                                                                 “Oh, ssser you are,” 

                                                               he said to himself,

As he spit some red down the drain.

                               “We could have let that ladle fall,

                                  But had to go chasing—Again.”

As he drove himself to the hospital,

The rear-view glass caught him staring

            And shot back, 

                                                “It's not so bad to chase,

                                             We just need to start off 

                                                             by preparing.”

So he woke up from the surgery.

The doctor was smiling softly,

               “Here's a hand-mirror; care to see?”

                                                         “Myself? Not yet. 

                                                            I feel awfully—”

                               Doc laid down the glass, 

                                            “Of course,”

And left. Then the man took hold of the thing:

                                                                           “Firtht, 

                                                                                imagine 

                                                                     what you will thhhee,” 

 he whispered,

And steadied his gaze 

                       like a king.

Dinner fight ...

           When I say, “I don't like fish”

   Don't take it personally.

I don't hate you, my good friend, who's making this meal for me.

I enjoy your company; I don't mean to be a burden.

But fish just seem so—gross to me.

      And I'm sorry

            you're a sturgeon.

                When you bubble, “Hey, you racist!”

     I know that's just your anger. And you know we're not

a race apart: we're genus, order, family, class—on up 'til phylum, strangers.

If anything, I'm a speciesist—

 and I think we all are, really.

    So let me take another shot of air

               and let's enjoy this seaweed, silly.

Mountains or ocean?...

An alien moved into my neighborhood.

She stood gray in the shade,

Turning eggplant as she wandered

More in the sun.

       I asked her, “Why did you choose

            East Bay?”           She said, “Well,

               It was here                or Area 51—

                 I'm playing—      here or Montana;

                   A mountain                     cabin or

                   An apartment              by the sea.”

                    Sometimes            I watched her

                  Walking           through the park,

               Running temple-tendrils through

           The late-day sun,   stroking grass

        And brushing bark. “So why not

                 Those green mountains?”

“It was really hard to choose,”

She said, her eyes going inky,

“Like committing to one lover;

Always another one you lose.

But so rare is the ocean. So

There's where I wanted to be.

Mountains are everywhere:

Mars, Vesta, Oberon.

But so few have a sea.”

I handed her a cup, for her

Eyes. “Why are you inking?”

             “Oh, it's nothing,” she

         Laughed off with a warbling

                       Squeee, “You know—

                                      Just thinking.”

                 But after some time, as the

                  Sky's light drained, and its

                    Refracted blues emptied

                   Clear again, she guided

                  Me by gentle pincers

           Toward the balcony—

         And pointed into

The starry deep.

“Right there,

He lived:

He was

Opal-skinned.

And he foamed,

Like the ocean

waves, for

me.”

A walk beyond ...

What I was, I am not                           now.

What I am,                       I will not long be.

There are a                                   thousand,

Thousand  'I's                                   I've

Come to know   as                      'me.'

'I' was a baby, a child,  a teen—

Eyes opened,        a world;

Eyes closed,   a dream.

'I' was fat,     and 

        then    fit,                 

even gaunt—

         Eating,               

      sweating,

  Wanting    not 

                 to want.

                               'I' was a 

          builder,       a painter, a sage—

Channeling 

mud, glue,                     The truth of my age.

'I' was a server, a follower, a fool—

Taking on others' wills,

                                     Busy-work,                rules.

'I' was normal,                         and basic, a place—

Buying clothes, begging jobs,

Taking up space.

'I' was important,  and special, meant for—

My family, my circles,

My loves made me           more.

Still, what I        was, 

I am not        now.

And what I am, 

I will no    further 

                              be.

There are a     thousand,

Thousand 'I's             I'll

Come                      to 

                     know 

                    as 

          'me.'