Per me si va...

You need passwords and case -sensitive- random letters -numbers?
I thought high-school lockers were hard to crack!
Are our secrets so important?

Is this our new hell?

Trading times.

On sad days, I trade sun for rain
to hide tears etching my face.
On hungry ones, bread for paper.
Music for dollars on busy days
And a steady husband over a quick lover any time.

On stormy nights when  houses turn into boats
I trade warm hugs for anything else I own.
On laundry days, the odd socks.
On fishing days, the tangled lines.

Trading is how time moves between days.
Except when it is all spent.

We do have these gifts.

A storm -cleared Pacific Ocean by Garrison Lake.

It was on this day
our prayers filled the void,
our heads bowed low
worshiping the light
in the void.

And here too we experienced
the loss,
paradise floating off the horizon
before our eyes
could adjust to the dark.

Life is cruel, you shouted.

I had no answer for you, then.
Or now.

I only know that at sunset, we'll marvel once again.
And we'll suffer another loss, once again.

What I don't carry fills the rest of my bag...

I pack lightly these days:

underwear

comfortable shoes

a raincoat.

If I need something badly I can purchase it anywhere.

Someone is bound to have all the things we ever want or need

or inventing something we

don't know yet we want.

The rest: 

sad thoughts

un-packable regrets

wordless thanks 

gift-less objects 

each scent

each sight

a tiny molecule in the trunk of loss that follows me everywhere.

Attention Surplus Syndrome

Thirteen and still not kissed.
Bumps, distractions, irritations. 
Middle of the day in middle school. 


She buys an ice-cream cone, knowing He'll see and stop and talk on the way back to class. For a good twenty minutes, she watches the basketball game He's playing, knowing He'll want a lick or two, and then...  


A very tall girl in red gym shorts, she used to play basketball, before she thought of licking this cone slowly, letting sugar puddles form on her closed fist and drip down her long torso wetting her gym shirt. She saw this in a t.v. show and took notes, when she still took good notes. 


The lunch- end- stampede scatters the crowd, and she loses sight of Him. 


She rushes to the bathroom to wash up and text him,and now she's late for class and sure to gain detention after school. 

She has to find another way.

Hungry.

How could this be,  
this dreaming about food all the time?
I could make lemonade,
or the
icy thing on top of the other icy thing,
tart, refreshing
orchard mellow on the tongue,
something to quell my thirst,
or dull my hunger.

But I don't.

I leaf through the
many cookbooks I  don't use to cook with;
and like shoes I never wear
and lipsticks colors I can't match,
those foods remain dreams I could have
and life-choices I could make
in my twenty four hungry hours.

.

Worded.

A soothing sight

without a nod to the fallen leaves

or the splintered wings

after the last storm.

This sunset promises

tomorrow's lines of hope

in long strokes of yellow and red and maroon

without a word of regret for last night.