1950's Fortress Woman: In Memory of Lois Scoville

Without memorial
but not without
memory.

One of few fortress branches
in this bloodline tree.
Seep your strength into my roots.

if only we could have spoken as girls.
I long to see you flirt and cry.
Instead you were the matriarch,
sassing, winking and stoic.
Dropping ice cubes into your chardonnay.

If only we were young together,
we metropolitan women.
You New York furniture buyer,
and I San Francisco book publisher.
Baking your Swedish lace cookies,
and shocking you with my tattoos.

Someday we'll be together,
city girls on clean cobblestone streets.

Earning My Blisters

Two hands cup my heart
For years they were brick walls
I wandered and stumbled the streets
Lying with confidence and self-control

But my heart ate away at the flesh of my hands
like a sun slowly melting wax
Begging to be released and seen

So I placed a veil over my glowing orb
and showed it frantically to the first person who approached
but the veil and my lies kept me safe
and removed. The first person was gone
within a beat.

I lied and said I didn't regret.
But I do.
I would visit Dr. Mierzwiak if I could.

My little sphere pulsating with longing,
I continued on and attempted
Amidst indecisive boys and excruciating dates.

Then you appeared,
and I immediately liked the back of you.
I pursued and orchestrated,
and emasculated.
You were sweet and left me flowers.

I took the veil off of my light.
And you held my hand, gazing at me with steady eyes.
I let it roll into your hands.
My tender star, gently sunning the insides of your palms.
At first you held it delicately,
even more gingerly than I ever did.
I was in awe and had
momentary relief for my raw fingers.

As time went on,
you forgot what you held captive.
I knew eventually
it would return,
biting at my skin.
I didn't foresee it
shattering to pieces.
Glowing shards line the undersides of your feet.
I hope they burn and cut.
And I walk these streets, with a void.

I earn my blisters with each risk I take,
they slowly crawl up my legs
from my feet,
over my hips, between my breasts
and settle into my ribs.
Each day they combine and grow.

And tomorrow, it will glow.

To the Wanderer, to make much of Seattle (My Herrick imitation...in title only): For Angela's departure

Dearest lover of quiet moments,
and the movements of the unseen.

I pray your roots lock into the Seattle soil.
Let them grow deep,
let them be exposed to the elements.

You are such a beautiful sprout,
allow yourself to flourish.

Let the birds flutter around you,
take root so the creatures of the earth
can shade themselves
beneath you.

Continue to love Him in the unreserved, fierce way you have.

So much is before you,

        "stretch beyond what limits you."

A Valediction Upon Melody's Departure

Dear collector of moments,
Let's freeze this frame a bit longer:
The warmth of the indoors,
With the occasional breeze,
Causing us to curse the cracked windows.

Your affection and creations of beauty
Will be heavily missed.
You are a loss to your city
And a blessingful gain to the land
Of sun and freeways
And spray tans.

I wish I could go with you,
Or that I could appear south
Whenever I desired.
But postages stamps
Will connects our hands,
Over invisible candles.

There was a fire on the tracks this morning, delaying my arrival

My brain, such a stale void
And this train isn't moving.
Spit me out
Until I crave you again.

My passion directionless.
stuck here at the station.
The doors are jammed open
But no one moves to leave.

wait while the collected debry
Of inactivity
Is cleared away by some faceless worker.
Only to remain paralyzed.
The blood rushing...slowing

Helpless, waiting.
Waiting for life to live me.
But as soon as challenge rises,
My knees buckle.
And my voice becomes strained.
I desire control and yet I do nothing.

Some sort of hummingbird,
Giving the appearance of productivity,
While not savouring the nectar.

God, give me compulsion,
Let me swoon over you.
My suitor, why have I grown weary?

Let me excite over the possibility of your skies.
And if destiny is to be by your side,
Show me marital bliss.

Draft written between 24th st and Powell stations

Paint the edges of my alter black
I want to feel your borders
Let me be contained
So I know you are here
Riding this line, swaying with the rails.
I am here, but rushing to the next destination.
My body is faint but addicted to the fast pulse.

The hummingbird beats of my heart
Remind me of my limits.
My brains misguided messages
Reminds me that I cannot out speedwalk my flaws.

A Meditation on Saturday Night

Oh little hermit crab
Retracting under
your pile of covers
and sheets.

Pouting at his departure,
the subtraction of warmth.

You layer on more blankets
to substitute a companion.
Your cave growing larger,
easier to escape into.

The illusion of safety
and protection.
When none,
this time,
is needed.

While you nest and build,
he is outside,
cold and traveling home.