2/12 Poem

The first poem of the year wasn't worth posting, so I threw you a bone with the Halloween-esque poem. What follows is the official second poem of the year.

If you write, maybe you will understand what I'm feeling. Sometimes I sit down to write and I feel like every word is utter crap, and then other times I sit down and the words flow from me quickly, so quickly that it almost feels like the poem is using me as an outlet. I imagine my poem floating around in space,undulating among airwaves, waiting for a writer to sit down with a little confidence and ink.

Sometimes I start with a line and what follows comes as a total surprise to me, like tonight. I had a first line and nothing else. Perhaps a Field of Dreams reference is appropriate here.

“Lover Seeks Kiss”

One third of the photograph is bursting:
pink and green azalea bush in full bloom,
dainty stamen extending shyly,
like a lover seeking a first kiss.
Cheeks blushing as fingers creep
over dewy skin, goose bumps
spreading, exploding over timid flesh
covering the total topography of skin.
Connecting islands,
one freckle to another, quickly expanding
like diffusion in a controlled lab,
like the suddenness of spring.
Stolen kiss,
hands sneak around hips:
fire lit.

Writing Bits

When I think about your eyes
exposed to the bare flesh of another,
my stomach churns into tangled knots.
I use my fingers to untie them
(same fingers with which I touch
your skin alone)
but they return, tight.
You mark your territory on pretty doves,
aim your metaphorical gun at them,
but the only one left bleeding red
is this brown headed robin.
I want to horde your eyes selfishly
so their lenses reflect only images of me,
want to be the only one
covered in your brand name.

Poem: The Good Times

Separating you from this despicable act
is easier as hands spin round the face of a mantel clock.
Each day, I am increasingly reminded of the good: three times
and no luck on the chocolate pie with meringue,
the time the beaters ate the shell and you laughed
as filling flew through the air and stuck to cabinets and hair.
Or the day you were in the snow with a hammer
building our yellow shed.
I had the lemon pound cake baking, running to town
to grab stamps or pay a bill
and you forgot to take it out and I cried.
You smiled and ate the burnt bits anyway.
Or my 23rd birthday when you had to work.
You left clues around the apartment,
a gift hidden in each room: Edward Cullen
stuffed under the couch cushion,
a cd in the washing machine,
tickets to see Blink in the mailbox.

Three days before you told me,
I came home to a dozen red roses.
How cruel of you to kill a fresh flower
to clear your guilty conscious,
and yet the day they arrived
I had never felt more loved.

All Mine, Head to Toe, Come on Come on Whistle Blow!

Mr. Wookie works off of five days tonight! Yesssss! (I has husband? I has him alllllllll weekend?!)

Sorry, I was a little excited.

Besides sitting in anticipation, I've been doing "research" on where to send my poetry. I feel like I'm giving up my "baby" for adoption. These poems need to go to a good home. A safe home. A place where they will be read and mulled over.

But I've been contemplating my placement for months. Literally months. And I've come to the conclusion that I've just got to do it. Just send them out. Everywhere. I'm not gonna stop until I get a bite. What's the worst that can happen? I can be refused. Big doody. I've been rejected before. It's not the first time, and it certainly won't be the last. (I mean, what can be worse than having your first boyfriend trample all over your heart in the third grade? That's right. NOTHING.)

I'm gonna do it. Tonight. I'm gonna mail some poetry. I'll keep you updated. Here's hoping.