middle-march-autumn

apple picking, indian curry, literature, and feminisim were
just enough before
rain caught and left us breathless
stomping through puddles and
the terrible feeling of incongruency
falls quicker than this storm

they call it the retrograde of mercury
the turn of tides and planets
of things I don't understand
is there any difference from those far-off
and of these held in my hand?

the yellow house

Still when I lay my head down to sleep,
if I let myself I can hear the
ticking of the old clock that hung between the windows
the scrape of dishes in the kitchen
and laughter reverberating off those awful beige-toned walls
trailing into the bedroom
and contentment again nestles in beside me.
The pair of them sitting on my bed and
speaking and giving and debating and
hiding
as we grew together but apart and I never realized.
The familiar sliding of the door across the wood and the thumping of heels amidst a string of muttered curses in midmorning rang familiar and warm.
But still the clock ticked and the kettle boiled and the oven unthawed those pizzas and life moved sleepily forward inside that yellow house.
I just never quite realized.

--

I was trying to be alone, you know,
saturate my senses in the smog of the
newspaper city
embraced
and
enveloped
I let her in
I breathed her in
Staked my claim and planted my feet
I should have brought my own handmade flag to
anchor in those layers of grime and soot.
But she is malleable
fickle
she fought back and
wouldn't budge
I was only hers for a time
She showed me my fears in the
winding, calling darkness
Then spit me out when the last grain fell

and I was ushered like Jonah to Ninevah

with my teeth gritted and my hands tied I fought
but, regardless, here I sit

The great eastern
-in its howling and hollowing
the waves
-in their breaking and mending
I shiver and quake

But, do I do well?
In this restless anger, do I do well?