a letter to my twelve-year-old self

The line will vary, day to day. Let it.
Its end will swoop sometimes, and
sometimes droop. Don’t let those
girls tell you where to draw it
or that guy say how. Follow
the fringe of your lashes, stay close
to the irises, their pupils open
wide to fathom the world they see.
Learn how a line can deceive – or reveal.
Forsake it from time to time. Go by feel.
Let your blue be naked and pale,
the hottest part of a low flame.
Next day, fly too close to the sun
on black wings born of your thin pen.

I.

In a week I’d be at college. For now,
reflected in the river’s smooth sheen,
the arches of the downtown bridge became circles,
full as the moon overhead. From the driver’s seat
you pointed them out, the wind from your hand,
as it raised, ruffling the down on my cheek.

II.

There were petals in the bathtub.
It was after midnight in Belgium.
“Will you marry me?” you asked,
your voice thick with wine.

III.

My favorite restaurant. Gauze in my sinus,
two broken bones, newly repaired,
invisible to the naked eye. In my bowl,
cracked mussel shells, wine, thyme.
I watched your hands. You looked abashed,
and had for a week. Carefully, as they were
so delicate, we clinked glasses.

IV.

We shook on it. I started a pot of soup.
It began to snow on our roof. You unpacked.
I suppressed a shiver at the sight
of your razor. I’d last seen it last night.

V.

At gate B25 we had to separate,
but first you wanted to stop by a window,
take my hand in yours, make a vow.
You’d call me later. Outside, the sun,
round as an orange, balanced
on the horizon, began to bleed light.

VI.

You stripped naked. You strode past.
I saw the barrel raise, heard the hammer
click. Only you had known the cylinder,
that cycle of moons, was empty.

“Surely the day is coming; it will burn like a furnace. All the arrogant and every evildoer will be stubble, and the day that is coming will set them on fire,” says the LORD Almighty. “Not a root or a branch will be left to them.”
– Malachi 4:1

May the door stick. May the log smoke.
May the things you tried to hide
float to the surface. May the muse choke.
No: may she flare, then consume.

May your mane thin. May your voice
go reedier still. May you sit in your room,
handsomely appointed, and watch her recede.
May the snake unfurl itself from its coil.

May you get your wish. May you get them all.
May you see, as if for the first time, the first leaf fall.
May you tremble in the open without its shade.
And then may your soul repent, left no choice.

May your heart’s bloody cauldron boil
until at last you know you are human – and thus afraid.

My sweet, longsuffering little poem:
panic is no road.
Yesterday bought us
the whole thing over again.
All can count, and I am haunted by
the sum of its corpse.
Tomorrow I’ll find something new
to run our fingers over.

The country is getting by on barb and thorn.
The whole premise repugnant.
When they pray, God cause
the hundredth time your poet
is going to value that which
looks stupid and hilarious.

Ugh, remember how edgy I felt,
having allonelength hair,
a Crayola box of
middleschool journals?
I didn’t yet hurt, luckily.
Will I love this girl?
She has become smaller, quieter.
Remove the oblique compliment
and now I am half delighted and half
ashamed and half hour.

Brewed up some girls:
my beautifulinsideandout
ladyfriends. Here’s my review
of those rare shades –
like a nightmare in the new Order
and you are made.
Right as rain. Howls
on moonlit nights.
We each won a trophy.

Thank you, friends who say I’m a
surefire way of ascertaining
whether we quarreled.
Oh, this is rising. It’s thick
as cotton batting. Hope
your training is going to mischief.

After a week of sickness
we finally made love again

and missing your kiss but
afraid of giving you what I had

afterwards I kissed my fingertips
and held them up to you

in salute, which you did
in turn, a foot above me,

pledging, too, your troth
your breath fanning my face

acnestis, n.
The part of the back (or backbone) between the shoulder blades and the loins which an animal cannot reach to scratch; the part of the human back between the shoulder blades.

– Oxford English Dictionary

When my sister had been dead ten months,
my parents went out of town for the weekend.
A long evening before me, with nothing planned.

Outside the open door of her room, I stood in the hallway.
Inside, the undisturbed detritus of a hospital stay:
get well messages, suncatchers, stuffed bears.

I closed her door. Stood outside it, brows knit.
Better, but not quite there. Opened it. Went back in.
Turned on a lamp. Closed the door. Stood outside again.

Closed my eyes and, willing them to see anew,
reopened them to that thin line of glow
between carpet and wood. Yes: getting closer,

approaching something. Went in yet again. Slid
in a CD that I hated but she loved. Turned it up loud.
Closed the door. Pivoted, walked to my own bedroom.

Emptied my mind. Spun and strode the hallway again,
carefully not looking directly at her door as I passed.
An old pinch of annoyance at that stupid song. Paced

in the muffled din outside her door for half an hour
like that, trying to work out a piece of grit, or else
turn it to a pearl