i miss becca

and i'm not afraid to say it.

i als0 miss erin,
mo, laura, and on the worst days, tiffany.

i've yet to find my place
in the world
or even in my own skin
but at least with them
some days it felt like home.

most days now
i worry about what people think
what arvin sees
and whether he despises me for it.

i listened to the indigo girls this afternoon,
1200 curfews,
and the nostalgia strangled me,
eager as a dominatrix.

i miss sitting by the river
in her mom's silver bmw
watching the grass grow
desperate for each other:
voices, skin, and fingers
thrilled to connect.
i never knew
that clean laundry
could smell so good
until i held that girl.

it's true,
"i feel it like a sickness
how this love is killing me
but i'd walk into the fingers
of your fire willingly"
for just a touch of that warmth
to see some spark
even briefly flare
as it's cold here in my world
freezing inside my chest
and frigid in my bed, at best.

This is What it Feels Like to Win

I registered for a swim meet today.

And I am 14 again,
heart in my throat,
world at my feet,
speed for days.

Biggest concern:

Being first to the wall.
And often enough,
I was.

Signing up for the meet,
I enter times,
slower than they once were,
but shit,
I'm almost 30,
what do you expect,
and for that brief moment in time,
I am young, tan, fast and fearless.

I feel the blocks beneath my feet,
bleached white,
texture like medium grain sand paper,
and there's 50 meters of blue
stretched out in front of me,
my favorite version
of a red carpet welcome.
I can feel early morning sun
on broad, strong shoulders,
and the sharp smell of chlorine
welcomes me home
with open arms.
Then I remember.
THIS is what it feels like
to be happy.
THIS is what it feels like
to be proud.

I swim in a week.
I won't be that fast.
But I'll be there,
taking to racing
like a fish to water.
Taking to the water
like a fish to water,
hurling myself forward with every stroke.
It won't even matter
that I was faster when I was twelve.
What matters
is that I make my body
do what I want,
and this is why I find myself
in the gym
or in the pool
more days than not:
I want to fucking race
just as much as I want to win.

Shunned By the Doves

It's strange
how i never knew
how to accept kindness
gracefully,
let alone a compliment.

it's also strange
that you were so good to me,
in a multitude of tiny ways
new cds, and snacks,
staying up until 3,
laughing at Scrubs
until i peed on myself a little.

but i was sure that
there was some ulterior something
that i just didn't know-
you judged me,
used me,
laughed at me
the second my back was turned.

i questioned every dime you spent,
saw menace
in your every gesture
and knew
that some part of you hated me
just as much
as i distrusted you.

all those nights
when we went to hastings
looking for films
and i was deathly afraid,
chest pains abounding,
certain that i would pick
the wrong fucking movie
and you would throw me to the wolves-

i should've
taken a deep breath
pulled my shoulders back
and relished
having a friend to hold me in the night.
should've bottled that laughter,
saved it for a rainy day-
because you better believe
it rained 40 days and 40 nights
10 times over
when we parted ways,
and my ark of terror
was no where near sea worthy.

i was flooded
with failure
shunned by the doves,
and i think it was sheer dumb luck
that i washed up on the west coast
alive enough
to send this message forth:

all along,
it turns out,
you were just
a damn good guy,
mostly sincere
well-wishing
not a bad lay
and i was simply bat shit crazy
lost inside my own head
unable to see past
the rolling fields of lunacy
that unfurled inside my mind.

This is not a poem.

This is just a note
to note
that some days
are just better spent
with a book in hand
rather than a pen.

Today's lack
of poetic inclination
can best be blamed
on Amanda Davis'
Wonder When You'll Miss Me.

And let me tell you-
until I finish the damn thing
you'll all
be missing me.

I am not a Violent Girl

but he says i am.
he says
i scare him,
that he thinks i
could easily
kill someone some day.

and what else?
i am crazy.
selfish.
a "backwards mountain person".
i can't help but laugh.

then again,
he looks at me
and promises to make me cry someday
tears of blood,
to destroy me,
send me to jail,
burn my books,
insults the manners
my grandmother instilled in me.
and i can't help but cry.

then, not twelve hours later,
when he is sitting on top of me,
flirting
grinding his dick against me,
looking confused and wounded
when i reject sexual advances
as violently
as he would paint me
i can't help but wonder
if i'm not the only crazy one.

Velma Joyce

Today, I realized,
is your birthday.

If it had been mine,
and you were still alive,
there would've been a card in the mail,
"Always remember,
you're Mamaw's angel."

I would've gone to your house
(oh, the 1970s wood paneling).

climbed up in your recliner
(the beige one I got you for Christmas).

and hugged you thanks
(worrying all the while
about how damn skinny you were).

We would've shared grilled cheese
and skillet fries,
whiskey in Mason jars.

But today is your day,
and here's the best I have to offer:
no cake,
no ice cream, just
that
I was accepted to law school,
found out yesterday afternoon.

I reached out to call someone
then realized that you
are
gone.

your husband, my Papa?
gone.

my Grangie?
gone.

my other Papa?
gone.
just this month past.

I can hear all of you,
a chorus of scratchy voices,
the sound of country ricocheting
of of every word,
consonants rounded, vowels drawn long and soft...
"Sugar, we are so proud."
and
"Well, babe,
that's what happens
if you just try."
and worst, or best,
"We sure do love you."

So, Mamaw,
I hope you know.
In lieu of a call,
I send you this poem.
I'm doing my best
to make you proud.
All the rest of you, too.
No more jail.
No more coke.
No more DWIs,
no more pills,
and no more razors
against my arms.
And in the absence of negatives,
a few positives.
I'm writing again,
publishing even,
swimming well,
staying strong,
being kind to others and,
usually, myself;
even (and best)
going to school.

Your memory colors so many of my days.
If I could be half as good as you were
(kind words,
even if sometimes undeserved,
generosity that warmed me
on my coldest days),
I would be better
than I ever dreamnt I could be.

For now, though,
I say
Happy Birthday.
I miss you.
I got in to law school.
I miss you.
I
will

make this life a good one.

I miss you.

spun sugar, verbatim

there are women
that care
for sex and make-up
dinner and drinks
and all things shiny and new.

i see their practiced joy,
their easy poise,
and I am pummeled
by a thousand tiny fists
of knock knock knocking jealousy.

i
am ill at ease,
awkward and terse,
and i am not sure
that i was

ever

so free.

all i can say is
"this book or that,"
"today in the gym,"
or "once, when i was swimming."
otherwise,
my tongue is heavy in my mouth;
my face burns and armpits sweat
with ugly
(not to mention rank)
desperation-
a longing for assimilation.

sadly, i never did learn
the fine art of inane chatter
and thus am verbally obese,
lumbering through nights,
conversations equivalent to french pastries
where someone says,
"i love this or that,"
and i can't help
but face plant
into the sweetie sweet sweet
icing of the conversation
with tales of woe,
"this scar? on my arm?
i was 17,"
ever the conversationally fat girl,
cumbersome and wildly inappropriate.

once upon a time,
a decade or so ago, these women,
often frivolous,
but just as often content,
pained my
ever
lasting
soul.
i was bitter, judgmental,
surely superior.
but, now, i long
to be so easily amused,
so ready and able
to wile away the hours
with dreams of
white picket fences
manis and pedis,
and, "oh girl,
did you see?!"
eyes wide, hand to mouth,
"i know. i just could not believe."

Instead,
I wrestle
with the god of levity,
begging for a blessing.
instead,
i am heavy as Hitler's heart,
attempting to dance
while wearing concrete shoes.

This Time of Year

I think of you often,
sunlight on your skin,
glinting off of the most beautiful stomach
I have ever seen.
I see glowing windows around us
on at least three sides,
and I can still smell the product
in that rock star fauxhawk that I loved so much,
and I wonder:
How could I have gone
so very far astray?

There were nights
(and i know, now, there's nothing that compares)
with bottles of cheap red wine
in dark green bottles,
picked solely on the merits of label design
late nights stretched out like melting taffy
on a crimson couch,
watching Harry Potter, singing Leonard Cohen,
revelling in our mutual mania.
Waking up
with bedhead type A,
(the bedhead of "traditional sleep")
or bedhead type B
("hip rolling, lips parting,
oh sweet jesus the nieghbors might call the cops
i screamed so loud" bedhead).
What sort of fool
tosses that aside
like nothing, like fingernail clippings,
like drier lint
for dilated pupils, and shaking hands,
for a short straw
and a pile of the white?

I know
it's getting warm now in Arkansas.
I can feel the humidity on my bare, broad shoulders
even from 2000 miles away.
We would've had beers
on the front porch swing
while watching the light dim,
throwing darts, holding hearts
talking about someday,
thinking about always.

I hope you know.

That.
Is what I saw in you.

I saw forever and a day,
the two of us- old women running 5ks,
family vacations and higher education.
Perhaps a child,
and showers togehter
every single morning until infinity.

And here's what you should know.

Sometimes I still do.

There are a thousand images
that cut me to the core,
a thousand memories,
and each one cuts like a knife.
I remember the two of us together,
dappled with soap suds,
and loss sears my eyes.
I sing alone
songs we will never sing together again,
windows down, hands catching the wind,
and the word regret
burns across my heart.


I still see all those things.
I see how they slipped away,
and I curse the mind
(all my own)
that told me to live
like I had nothing to lose,
that left us friends at best,
speaking only to the surface of things,
while just below the water of everyday,
remorse pours into my lungs.