Mar
old poem
i wrote this last summer.
I remember waking up
tangled, with your head to my chest
like you were listening for
a distant herd of buffalo.
When you stood up to leave I saw
thoughts coming off of you,
rising like birds
taking off from your bare shoulders.
A few old mason jars
filled with different colored
sand, small stones, and worn river glass.
A rust covered iron gate.
A Hammond organ.
An old sepia photograph of a woman
posing with a stag. A cracked,
empty swimming pool.
The second half
of the loneliest feeling
crashes over me, leaving me covered in sand
and bits of broken glass.
The sound of bells.
The sound of wind howling
through holes in the masonry.
The sound of the highway in the distance.
The sound of freight trains running all night.
I think about the dishes.
The light yellow porcelain plates,
the forks and knives with
faux bamboo handles and dirty colander.
I should wash them but I’d rather
crack open my rib cage
and let the birds eat the pear that grows within.
