Twin Sized Fitted Sheets

I've decided
I want to be with you
long enough to figure out how to fold
those stupid fitted sheets.
Because as much as I do know,
I've never figured that one out.

I've also never been able to understand
the way your fingers,
tracing the curve of my jaw,
can make me lose all sense of language

I'd never appriciated the beauty cliches must have held,
but now that I know you
I want to paste them along the outline of your skin

rewrite them
so they fit just you
like those damn cornered sheets

Creased in a way so much easier
to breathe into your being
than to stack and hide
in a closet.

--

And maybe it's a good thing
to have two sets of sheets.
I can strip the mattress,
cover blue again
with brown maybe this time,
instead of red.

Though like this
only one set will ever smell
like you.

Only one set will hold
the memory of your hand on my waist,
your fingers tracing the curve of my jaw.

And if I have two sets
I have to fold fitted fabric.
Thin.
Flat.
Unobtrusive so it
will stay on the middle shelf of my closet
until the ones on my bed smell
too much like me and
not enough like you and
I have to unfold my two-handed handy work,

stretching elastic over corners
so that the only scents are unscented
detergent and week and a half old
dryer lint

--

So the next time I feel your fingers
tracing the curve of my jaw
I will laugh

because I know you still won't be here the next time
I'm folding fitted sheets,

and that's okay.

For now I have figured out
how to stack empty pillow cases in the lower corner
place flat
over fitted
and keep the shelf in my closet level

I will breathe rewritten cliches into your skin
and wait for a day
when we're folding our sheets together.

Letters

-Response to Allison Prick's Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?-

Yesterday my boots soaked through,
but this morning the sky holds, grey
standing high choosing not to interfere with tree tops
and falling leaves

I put a letter in the post today,
the usual lines saying I miss you.
That I want to see you again.
You will write back with the same thing
and I will wish you would tell me more
about the color of the leaves,
because somehow your branches are already coated in white.
Somehow your sun falls before it can color the clouds in my eyes.
Somehow we continue to breathe repeated words into static phone lines
moving each other as the world moves beneath us.

The Written World

-Response to Jeffery McDaniel's The Quiet World-

In an effort to reverse the times,

and also to appease the English teachers,

the government has decided

to abolish keyboards and give

each person pens, paper

and postage stamps.

When I answer a memo I blot harsh words from

my answer. In our classes

we learn to take notes again.

I am adjusting quickly to the new rules.

Late at night I count my postage stamps,

allot two stamps a night to send my long distance lover

and write small to save ink.

When her letters are short she softly says

she has no more ink. So instead she

scratches I love you

into the bottom inches of paper.

After that, only lipstick stains the page.

Summer Camping

-Response to Grapevine Fires, Death Cab for Cutie-

It was one hundred degrees

the dry ground matched the sky

we played in the dirt as smoke

rose in the hills and our mothers sipped wine

from plastic glasses

when the red sun matched the fire

embers burned in the trees and helicopters

circled the mountain dropping

oversized water balloons

memories of summer

as the air cooled we crawled into tents

remembering reality where fire was no more than

contained circles of orange;

a strike-anywhere match.

the trees still burned in the morning.

October Seventeen, Two Thousand Ten

-Response to Trevor Carolan's My Old Master Eats Cherries-

old is a better fit than any

number I could cut and paste to his body

this man with no age

and no name

wears a red coat in mid October

he whispers when he orders his meal

as though his vocal cords would crumble

under the force of his words

hesitating, he leans on his cane, appears

too proud to ask my help,

so I offer.

Carry his food to a table

as behind me he stumbles even with support.

I cannot decipher his emotion

lying between resentment and thanks

slow movements bring food to his lips

he moves sporadically for the door when he leaves

the sight breaks my heart and

for once I don’t mind the mess on the table.

Shake the Dust

This is for the romantics

This is for the kids who grew up on Silverstien poems

And those growing up building character on 140 characters or less

This is for the letter writers

This is for the five year olds in plastic Cinderella shoes

Matching the patterned footsteps of their mothers’ leather heels

This is for the bus drivers

Shake the dust.

This is for the runners

This is for the people who didn’t believe in love

And the people who don’t anymore

Shake the dust

This is for the florists and the bakers and the painters

For those who see the faded beauty in clichés

This is for the readers

Shake the dust.

This is for the girls with too much eyeliner

For the gamers with too much free time

This is for the parents who do not have children because their children grew too quickly

Shake the dust,

Pull back the curtain and let the sun fade the antique furniture pulled from your attic

Shake the dust

Leave the picnic blanket in the rain and let the ants carry away grains of bread

Shake the dust

Stand in the snow without a jacket a revel in the fact that you are alive

Shake the dust

This is for the dreamers.

Shake the dust.

Sunday

White noise and television static cover the view as half seen droplets dye gray concrete to a darker tone. Upturned leaves bend to form heavy frowns as smiles are transferred to twisted roots hidden underground. Green moss deepens in shade against a shed roof one storm closer to needing replaced. Light sky contrasts reaching limbs and the air hangs heavy with the feel of Sunday morning.

Memories of My Grandfather

I am ten years old and searching for red amongst the tangled green vines of my grandfather’s tomato plant. It’s afternoon on a Saturday and the yard is filled with sunlight. Had I looked up I would have seen my Nana standing at the sink below the window in the kitchen, washing vegetables to be eaten with the grilled cheese she is making for lunch. I love my grandpa’s house because he always has the much better tasting processed cheese my mother never buys. The door opens and we are called in, I take the hand of my sister who has befriended an ant on the level stone of the pathway and run inside. I bury myself in the strong arms of my grandpa, inhaling the stale scent of the cigarettes he hasn’t smoked since before I was born.

After lunch we sit next to him on his flower patterned couch and chatter as he watches the news. We chew on creamy toffees taken from the shelf below his outdated television set, I read the cards that sit on the mantle, collected as time passes. Later we follow our grandpa into his garage, intrigued by old bird cages and golf clubs. He drives to a playground where my sister and I yell and run as our grandparents watch us, encouraging our laughter.

I am twelve years old a year and a half later and I do not cry when my mother tells us of shadows and lung cancer. She sits between my sister and I, a limp arm around each of us. I lack expression and do not know why. I remember bouncing on his water bed watching cartoons as he sat eating cheesies in his brown arm chair. I remember fish on the wall in his bathroom and his undersized and beautiful tree at Christmas. I remember big meals and painted Easter eggs. I am young and I do not understand death. My sister, three years younger, is in tears and I cannot join her.

We sit in near silence and the sun reflects off the wall into my eyes. We go our separate ways, a reassuring hug from mom to help us sleep. I think I feel guilt but I do not know guilt until we visit after surgery. Visit oxygen tubes and wheelchairs that scare me more than the idea of death. I bring him canned chocolate shake, with orders from Nana to make him drink all of it, and I try to hide myself in cartoon lines and woollen blankets. Try not to hear hushed voices from the kitchen. Try not to admit that I am scared.

I do not cry mid June when news of flat lining heart monitors reaches me. I am dressed in blue for the funeral, confused because I’m not to wear black. There is no casket and I still question death. Though I accept it, sprinkling ashes over daffodil buds under tall trees, I do not believe in loss.