The Weight

Come here.  I want to tell you something.

The day is over now but night hasn’t yet arrived.
It’s that in-between time.
The Gloaming.
You hate The Gloaming.
It makes you feel like you’re suffocating there between the sun and the moon;
the two of them pressing against you from either side;
one giving,
one taking.
Come here and take this walk with me down to the rivers edge.
There’s a patch of spider lily’s there I know you’d like to see
and they look perfect in this light,
their red spider fingers

reaching up and then curling down into themselves.
Bring your camera.
I know you’ll get a perfect picture in the waning light of this day.

Will you print it and frame it for me? 
My birthday is coming up.

Now, take my hand.  
Walk with me along this moonlit path back to our house.

I brought the medicine for your headache. 
I’m just going to put these two brown pills right here

next to this cold glass of water.
You’ve been working all day and I saw you leaned back in your chair.
Your eyes closed,
your hands laced together in your lap.

It’s midnight in summer and jazzy blues are coming in soft waves from the speaker;
I’ve left the windows in the bedroom open all day
and the air is thick with the sweet bloom of the magnolia tree down below.

I won’t let go of this breath I’ve been holding for you
until I hear the mattress creak underneath your weight.


I keep trying to find the words today but they’re not making any sense.   I keep tapping them out on this keyboard but I can’t make them fit together.

It’s Friday and I miss you.  It was Thursday yesterday and I missed you then, too.

Maybe I will just miss you forever.

Remember how I said before I met you, I was just gonna live out the rest of my days alone until I became an old woman who sat by the window and hoped Max would come home for Christmas that year? 

Well, now I will sit by the window and wait for you too.

14 days

remember, 14 days ago, when there was color behind my eyes
and I could breathe
and i busted the speaker in my car
listening to my music so loud
because there was color again?

that was 14 days ago.

there was still color 13 days ago, too.
and 12.
and 11.
and 10.
there was still color for part of 9, too.
but then it went dark
and it’s been black around here for 9 and a half days now
and i need some night vision goggles
because i can’t see a goddamn thing.
and people keep asking me questions
and expecting answers.
and max wants scrambled eggs for breakfast
but what’s that?  i can’t find the carton anywhere.
nothing is where i left it and
I’ve gone blind.
and i might be going mad too.

now the busted speaker is just a reminder
of my busted up life,
of my busted up head,
of my busted up eyes,
of my busted up heart.
it’s all just busted the fuck up.
and i keep trying to pick up all the pieces
so i can glue them all back together
but it’s so fucking dark in here.

except the lights won’t help because i’m fucking blind.

now I’ve got pieces of my eyes glued to pieces of my heart,
and strands of my hair glued to the dashboard,
and the speaker is covered in bits of my brain,
and it sounds like absolute shit in here now.

i should really call the dealership and tend to the busted up speaker,
but how am i supposed to do that when i can’t GODDAMN HEAR either.

For fucks sake.

I can’t goddamn hear.

can somebody bring me a fucking cane?
or just sit me down in this wheelchair
but don’t put me over by the window.
i can’t see shit anyway and i can’t hear the birds
singing the-fuck-knows-what to each other,
so it doesn’t bloody matter where you wheel me.
just throw me in the utility closet
with the bugs and chemicals.

i can’t smell or feel a motherfucking thing anyway.

throw me the fuck away already.
roll my body up in that cheap rug you bought from Ollie’s
and take me out to the city dump.
i hope the goddamn compactor rolls right over me
and crushes all my bones to pulp,
and i leak out into the soil,
and maybe the ants and worms
can find some nourishment
in that bloody fucking stew.

you’re goddamn welcome you fucking bug motherfuckers.


I thought of you today:

when I woke up,
brushed my teeth,
straightened my hair,
ran some foundation over my tired face,
coated my lashes with the black tar.

I thought of you:

when I backed out of my driveway,
dropped Max at school,
drove myself to work,
got out of my car

I thought of you:

when I walked into the building,
grabbed my coffee,
sat down at my desk,
gathered my papers,
punched in some numbers on my calculator.

I thought of you:

when I checked in the beer guy,
ordered the paper towels for the men’s room,
wrote that check for the band boosters.

I thought of you:

when I ate my baked chicken for lunch,
plunged the toilet in the ladies room,
mopped up that diet pepsi bottle
someone broke
over by the back cooler.

I thought of you:

when I got home around 2,
changed my clothes,
sat in the pick up line for Max.

I thought about you:

when we got home from school;
during homework;
arguments about homework;
all through dinner;
arguments about dinner;
evening bath time;
arguments about bath time;
prime time tv;
arguments about tv;

I thought about you:

Bed time stories.

I thought about you:

Precious minutes alone on the couch.

It’s 12 a.m.

I’m still thinking about you.


You didn’t have to walk off that cliff 
and fall down into that canyon where voices don’t reach
and arms can’t stretch far enough to retrieve you.

I’ve tied a rope around this little tree here at the edge
and I’ve dangled my body as far down as it can go,
shouting over and over again
into the deep, dark belly of that canyon,
until my voice becomes raw.

I don’t think you can hear me.


I let my tears fall like a southern summer rain storm,
soft and cool and welcoming,
soaking everything in their path
and clearing away all the dirt
you fear is stuck to you

You don’t know
that you are still just as pure 
as the snow that falls on that tiny Maine island
you drove to 
just to eat those crab rolls 
that one time.

And I’ll be here tied to this tree
reaching for you.
Waiting to feel your fingertips
 graze the tips of mine.

Shitty Poetry. You’re Welcome

Dear You:

Would you mind very much if I asked you,
forcibly but kindly,
to get your ass back here and let me tend to you?

You need tending to.

Your beard is looking a bit unkempt and your shirt needs a good iron
and I doubt you’ve filled your belly with any kind of comfort.
Your lips are dry and are starting to crack.
You forgot to pick up your fancy lip balm when you were at the pharmacy two days ago tomorrow.
I happen to have a tube in my pocket.
Let me run it over your lips for you.

And your poor hands are starting to ache
from all the words you keep writing to me but then erasing
because you think none of the words will work.
Let me have your hands between mine
and I’ll rub your deluxe lotion all over them in circles while I massage the knots out of your palms.

Sit here in this chair at my kitchen table and I’ll play a song for you
while breakfast cooks on the stove.
Long hard nights deserve bacon and pancakes in the morning;
that sweet batter filling all the gaps in your soul
Let me stand behind you and knead all the rocks from your shoulders
until you rise from the sudden buoyancy of their release.

You can close your eyes if you like.

Just let me tend to you.



You’d die to know I went to one of those psychic websites.
Ten bucks for a 10 minute reading.

But before you commit you can ask three yes or no questions.

Will I talk to you again?
For sure.
Will it be soon?
Do you miss me any?
Without a doubt.

I didn’t commit after that.

It’s Sunday morning from where I’m sitting,
which is in a different spot at my kitchen table.
The other spot I used to sit in is a plot in a graveyard
with your name on the headstone,
a bottle of Jameson and the thick stack of our words for decoration.

I thought you would like that
instead of some stupid flowers or an angel even.

What time and day is it where you are?

You’re just out in the void now.
I can’t place you anywhere.


P.S.  Are you tired of my shitty poetry yet?