Mom, I do not want

to wear pretty clothes that hang

off my frame and remind you

I am not fat, that remind you

you are. I do not want to rejoice,

the way you do, that we

are not the same, I am lucky,

and splendor in my body.

Its shape deceives me. I am to be

happy in all this body rightness.

Right curve at the crook in my thigh

where it meets my pelvic area,

just like the underwear models,

indented, smooth. I do not want to rely

on all this body rightness

but I am given no other way. So I know

I am happy because my clothes are loose,

because I am one small size

from head to toe, with a minor curve

behind me and narrow places

praised below my rib cage.

I don’t know what to do

with all this rightness that does

not make me happy, that does

not make me feel anything at all

other than not not okay like

my girlfriends whose torsos are larger,

squishy, go out where commercials say

they should go in. So I know,

at least I do not have that to worry about.

Until all this okayness shows up

at the roller rink in 8th grade in slim jeans,

in a half shirt, in the way I stand a particular way

to see who notices all my okayness and makes me

feel like I am something I have not considered

wanting to be or not. Doesn’t everyone

want to be ok?

We are a sea of bodies

each on a mysterious path

We are an ocean of souls

no separation

We could reach each other

I stretch my arms

heavenward

seeking hope

day after day

until the veils

are thin

as vapor

What do you see

Long brown curls

green eyes

a ready smile

See beyond

ache to reach

what supports

my breath

carries yours

connects us

Why do we

hide

behind

imaginary barriers

pretending

we are

each an island

that another's story

is not woven

into our own

On my way to writing group

I walked past despair in flesh

her crumpled form convulsing

in a broken-down vestibule

in a forgotten neighborhood

where cars make quick stops

Her head tucked in knees

arrows gathered in her shredded arms

wasting away

shaking

shaking

shaking

I continued

along shattered sidewalks

my tears a sorrow stream

Where are we?

I closed my eyes

ached

reached for her

heart to heart

Through emptiness I cried

O God! What can I do

Dusk descended

I stepped inside the library

blinded

by a familiar light

She lives in me now

a constant reminder

we must love

without walls

I am never alone

Inside my abdomen I hold all the tears no one claims,

these tetherless sadnesses that wander person to person

seeking a home.

So I rest by a window looking and not

at what God has sprung from seed and soil,

as empty garbage cans roll curb to house behind our neighbors.

When I move my neck a few degrees left, a few degrees sky,

I let out the light-held breath and lose these orphan tears.

Angels bounce,

flower to flower, whisperless.

For no thing do we strive, I think.

Atoms and smaller than atoms are not really,

but individuals alone in their orbit so close together

we are asked to believe in their transient synergy:

the bed from which we rise

floor on which we rely

and every other matrix dweller’s tool.

My mannerisms wish to be less me,

until, untethered, your voice

speaks inside.

My hands returned, thick in memories,

mirror yours.

Thank goodness,

a few pieces were not swept away.

There is an ache when finally facing

your deepest fears, gently setting them

in a safe corner, carrying on in opposition

to their desperate plea for you to continue

only the familiar, well worn path,

the one you are determined

to step away from in order to become a rock star.

Early afternoon is hardest, when the sun angles in

and the long evening is just around the bend,

when you must keep walking this new way

at a time when it would be so easy to give up,

fold into old habits, pat your dreams on the head,

set them on the shelf and act like there never was

a higher notion.

Sadness is knowing that if those dreams were shelved,

you couldn't properly go back to an old path.

The possibilities would become ghosts that weave a whisper

through every decision you make, even to stir the potatoes lest they stick.

There you'd be at the stove, your arm swirling

in deference to the mundane, your heart aching in the never-knowing

if it would have been better, if you might have flown.

Accepting the difficult truth, you walk straight

into the path of perceived risk, a single tear,

the sign of courageous determination, sliding

down your cheek, falling from your face,

a soft breeze cooling your wet skin as you hold on tight

through the turbulence of takeoff, and look forward

to the day you just might soar.

Smooth jazz, iced decaf

warm, humid, windless hour before dusk

I am perched beneath a sheltering canopy

and a thousand grey clouds ready to burst

Ash trays on empty tables

vacant chairs for no company

A tall girl with an orange barrette

her short, white, cotton dress ruffling out

just above the top of her pale, thin thighs

walks silently through double doors

Nothing else moves but prairie grass

planted for atmosphere

two feet from yellow-covered power lines

and an endless parade of cars driven by the faceless

For one moment I don’t care

I am a sullen child craving succor from external saviors

I ache for autumn

single syllable sentiments

love, blessed, life

solid matters, my opinion

details of a single moment

all disappear

in a walking meditation

one mile at a time

no beat holds me steady

the sun, a promise

carries my frame

accompanied by a fragile silence

a link to grace

i am neither free

nor branded

i am

a smiling whisper

holding to the cord

of faith