Stories

I was falling in love

when he accidentally stumbled over my heart,
and tripped,
and it shattered.
I picked up the pieces carefully
and showed them to him,
hoping he might carry them, too.
He held a piece up to the light,
then put it gently back in my hands.
“Let me tell you my story,” he said.
So I listened with my hands full of my broken heart,
and I understood why he might stumble over it
and why there was more to us than broken pieces,
and when he walked away to a new story,
I carried his old one with me,
because I knew it.

I was building a palace
when a weary pilot flew too close and crashed,
falling,
into what was becoming something beautiful.
She got up, amazed, and saw me,
came rushing to show me her hands and skin
and breath and livingness.
“Let me tell you my story,” she cried.
So I listened, standing in the dust of my dreams,
and I understood why she wondered at the second chance
and why miracles sometimes destroy what they fall onto,
and when she rushed on to live her fresh life,
I carried her story with me,
because I knew it.

I was planting a garden
when a hungry man walked by and noticed
with relief
that food was available.
He took it with gratitude.
“Let me tell you my story,” he said.
So I listened as he ate what I would have grown,
and I understood how nourishing it was
and why the smallest gifts can cost so much,
and when he walked away with less hunger,
I carried his story with me,
because I knew it.

The years went by, and more
stories were told,
so many that I walked slower.
My arms were full of stories.
I stacked them on my back, balancing,
until I stooped under them.
I could not rest, fearing they would be lost.

In the end I hated the stories.
They all came to be lies,
and the happy endings seemed meant for everyone
except the one who carried them.
I stopped listening.
I stopped carrying.
I let go.

I walk quickly now.
No words weigh me down.
I’ve learned how to shift,
fade,
so I don’t hear the stories.

And yet when I see the lover,
the pilot,
the hungry man,
I know their stories.
I understand.
Their eyes shine,
and they smile at the sight of me.
I smile back as they pass, and inside I say,
“Tell no story,”
a chant aloud in my head until they are gone,
as if they cannot speak what I will not hear.

I have had enough
of stories.

before, and after

tell me

what was the color of your pain

how softly did it tear your skin

what is the shape of betrayal

what is the name of abandoned

does the sun bleed red

like me

and was death any less surprising

than you imagined

tell me

did the day split cleanly

was it sharp enough to cut even

did it rip the edges raw

and when the broken song first began to fade

was it the gray that caught a glimpse of rose

or was it blue that took a breath of gold

what was the smell of hope found hiding

when the ashes cooled to dust

away

what morning is the color of this

...

tell me

what was the color of your joy

what was the shape of its song

the sound of its brilliance

the words of the way it lifted life past life

when the stories all came true

that day

the moment

the smile, the hands

the spring, the summer forever

would have carried you

was everything

tell me

what is the color of nothing

how heavy is empty

why is there a word for forever

and how brown is the curve of your road

what flowers bloom at the edges

after all the flowers have died

where does the horizon burn

now that the sky is gone

what winter is the color of this

Lonely

Maybe it's like sadness
or grief --
nowhere to put it but in my pocket,
warm, until it flies again.

Maybe it's like emptiness --
nowhere to take it but here,
with a seat at the table,
until it's called out again,
to pilgrimage.

I carry it in my hands.
I say, I will set you free.

I take it out and let it go, but still
it's in my coat and on my chair,
an empty cup waits to be washed.

on editing a photograph

did you know
the first time
that you would win

did you dream
the first night
that you would be
photographed after

when you kicked up the first kickstand
when you strapped the first helmet
when you felt the first speed of legs
when you balanced the first wheels

did your mind wander to what could be
did you even know to wonder

and the picture they took
you in the sun with the smile
wearing the colors of triumph

the picture around the world
on my screen dissected by grain

did you stop to think of your nose
that tiny curve into lip
how I would fade the pixels beyond
magnify your chin
and the crest of your eyebrow
lit with the smile and the sun

intimacy with the world

your face is fair game
the face of the champion
always is

Kristen

We have met,

you from your house and I from mine.

The children came first, reached out in smiles and giggles,

and we watched, pretending it was all about them.

We simply stood, overseeing, talking to fill the time.

She and I walked on.

You returned indoors to the dog.

We’ve learned names, abridged stories,

waving as we go back to us.

It is so small, the distance between people,

yet so great.

Shall we go on as if we are insignificant?

Just a passing, just a moment, till we continue

on with where we are going.

But really, something happened.

You stepped out from the shadowed mass,

said your name, shared a daughter’s smile.

I turned my face to you, to be remembered,

made space for you to enter.

The surface is smooth, while underneath a current silently shifts.

We have met.

Oh, the things I tangled up and gave
to the wind I loved,
oh, the strings I watched blow away --

just to know I held them once and
that they were taken for wanting.

Oh, the footsteps I could count watching,
somehow never starting up to follow,
knowing they were leaving --

just because I thought they never would,
just because I knew how to believe

in nothing. Because I could. Like words,
it can be anything you want,
like I thought I could.

And oh, the greatness of the vacancy,
the tightness of the strings untied and gone,
the angle of the memories just enough

to remind me what it takes to lose,
to remind me what I lost to wanting.

I love you like an orange.

It takes me five whole minutes.
Standing there, pulling off the skin,
picking off the white stuff,
separating the wedges,
picking off more white stuff.
Seems like I never get all the white stuff.
Even eating it,
I'm still picking off white stuff,
spitting out seeds.

An orange is not a simple snack.

But I'm not thinking about the peel,
not fretting all the white stuff,
not hating the seeds.
All I think is the orange.
It's really good.

And I love you.