The Poetry Marathon

I love you, I swear

Then why won’t you hold my hand,

tight with fingers intertwined.

Then why won’t you show your parents

that we flirt daily, lover’s minds

Then why do you say you’ll leave next

time a pretty girl says your name

Then why do you hold onto my heart

knowing you’ll only let it go

I’m going emotionless again

Shawn messages after two months

of mutual silence, I hear the ding

and sigh, knowing it’s him, knowing

he wants to talk, knowing I can’t

take his words and make them new,

let myself fall, his lies nipping

my ears, trying to take hold.

So I stare at the screen and blink,

forcing fingers to still, a screen to stay

cold, keeping silence instead of spilling

that my emotions are long-gone too.

The Wave

Since Mommy and Mamaw quit talking, Mamaw stands

on her porch and drinks her coffee when night twinkles

into day, after stars have fallen into the clouds.

Daddy and I drive by on our way to work, our red

car flashing past, speeding because we’re late. She raises

her shaking arm to the sky, doesn’t wave, just lifts,

and, behind the window’s glare, I do mine, both

reaching for the air above us that we can’t grasp.

My collection of containers:

1 Hawaiian Punch jug

Label removed, gift from my great

aunt used to store pennies she littered,

a basement hunt for me and three

cousins, now collecting bedroom dust

2 ají jars

Small, protruding checkered sides

that catch the sun, beautiful,

decorations on the mantle,

one now contains holy water

3 applesauce containers

Kept because of the indents at the side,

easy to hold, memories of the kids

who sloppily ate from it, pretty

pictures of apples and smiles

5 paper cups

Large, used to hold tickets

at arcades, strips still protruding,

never turned in, dusting, hoping

to be used for a giant pink dog

5 take-out salsa containers

Kept for stirring paint, easier

than buying brand-new,

in my basement waiting

for me to start painting again

6 water bottles

Empty, lying on the floor,

reminding of boys long gone,

drunk the day they took my heart,

the last piece I have to hold

The Guide to Making Up

1. Take the brush and paint

a smile, lips curving

around gritted teeth.

Make sure the liner

stays within your lips

and doesn’t bleed, doesn’t

show him what’s real.

2. Take him by the hand,

Cock your head and smile.

Bat your eyes and say,

“You coming?” Grin.

3. Close the door behind

you, watch him turn the wheel

as he finds your spot.

No streetlights, no cameras,

a few empty cars

around so you don’t

look too suspicious.

4. Let him grab your hair

as he breathes in deep

and exhales your soul,

plasters it against

your pale clammy skin.

5. Close your eyes and stop

your heart from pumping.

Stop it before

It aches, grows weary

with reality.

6. Know that what you’re doing

is for the best.

Whoever said happy

wife, happy life was dead

wrong. They never knew

what it’s like to be

that wife, putting

make-up on to hide

the tears that stream.

In the beginning was the Word

In times of death, you wonder what you did to upset

the God above. Should you retrace your frail steps back,

beginning where you failed, taking you to birth, where silence

was your only cry? Graveyards filled by the hundreds today,

the forgotten bones all groaning, knowing only one

Word could erase death, could console a broken soul.

The only one that sees is my basement walls: dirty pours

The canvas, suspended by two wrinkled cups,

stands tall waiting for me to pour the mixed

paint. I watch it fall off the canvas and pool

onto the aluminum guard protecting

my table. It creates shapes unrecognized

by anyone except me, colored clouds

on my own white sky. I burrow in my basement

and squirrel them away once they dry. I name

them with names that I forget, never writing

them down, scared of mistakes, scared of permanence.

Porridge

We sit on the porch and swing,

legs pumping, small breezes

coming from beneath our feet.

We just finished reading

the story of the three bears,

my own little bears mesmerized

at the porridge, the beds,

the cottage that seems just like ours

if our lives were a fairytale.

When the pages close, they run

through the grass, fast as trees

zipping by in mountain-bound

cars. They don’t grow tired,

even in the heat of the rays

of summer falling behind

the tops of leaves. The baby

sucks the bottle as fire-

flies turn into stars, making

me wonder if I was just

a masked stranger dreaming

of what I wish could stay real.

Gone

At Foster and Cleveland, light red

as Rudolph’s nose, Daddy turned

and said, “I have the ‘riginal Gone

with the Wind. It’s untouched, still

in the wrapper.” I’ve never seen

that. “How could you not? I bought

it for you.” Well, it’s still wrapped,

how could I? “You should one day.”

He smiled, but I knew he was glad

that I didn’t. The movie’d be worth

much more untouched, especially

since the world’s changed so much.

In The South

The fireflies float up the treeline.

But we call them lightning bugs here.

They glimmer as they soar high, seeking

the final warmth of the setting sun

or escaping the heat we’re making

beneath my pick-up’s tarp and brightness

of the stadium parking lot lights.

We watch them rise, little stars

in our small town lives, the only zooming

we see around here. Well, besides the cars

racing around mountain roads, wheels

picking up dust, our hair eating wind.

As they go to the sky, we wonder

what it’d be like to be them: light,

carefree, not afraid to reach new heights,

to kiss the sun or die trying.