Love Like Winter

Forget December. It won't be better than I remember it before.
–Andrew McMahon

Starving and single in the grocery store line.
He’s always hungry for the holidays.
Pushing the cart toward the checkstand
he looks down at his hands
to see the scars of a first date turned upside-down.
It was December of '01.
Rubber hitting ice.
A blaze of red as the SUV swerved, spun, squealed
off the road and into the deep grove of evergreens.
There would be no second date.

The abundance of breath freshener at the checkout counter
reminds him of shared Altoids,
of flirtatious kisses
in December of '05. He offered her the wintergreen mint,
but its bitter taste caused her to return it
in the most romantic way possible.
As her bright red lips locked on his, she slid the mint into his mouth
as if she had never wanted it in the first place.

Pulling the money from his wallet he thinks of
December of '06 sitting on a couch in his parent’s living room.
Until that day the green buck
signed by his favorite band
had hung above her bed.
He removed the red paper from the present,
tearing the last remaining piece of her in two.
The dollar bill now sits framed on his desk.
A hallowed reminder of a love that wasn’t worth the cost.

Out of Tune

Is that your music?
I was going to ask you
the same thing. You beat me
to it. Look! We watched as costumed children
walked in circles. Princess, Cowboy, Clown, Vampire,
Superman, Witch. Each with a violin,
playing their respective tune.

Tightening my strings,
the strain
nearly causes them to break.
You raise your bow as if
to strike.
Our thoughts on tempo are varied.
That’s okay; you can be
a princess;
I can be
a cowboy.

Now I’m Superman; flying; I trip
on my cape.
My violin collides with the cement.
Shards of spruce shatter across the sidewalk.
The strings are all that’s left to hold its precious neck
to what remains of the body.
Hanging by a thread, you help me to my feet.
You do not look me in the face.
Your words are mumbled.
Maybe the witch can fix it.

Relief

The sun beating down.
Sweaty and hot.
A red heifer.
Nine months after her heat.
She bellers.
And pushes.

A pink nose.
Forcing its way into this world.
He takes his first breath of life.
A squeal of pain.
Escaping lips that cannot open.

Hands and gloves.
You reach inside to find a leg.
Two legs.
We tie gold chains to
Small white hooves.
Pulling. Sweating. Heaving.

She is no longer pushing.
A sigh of relief.
He is no longer squealing.
He lays there in the dirt.
Stretched. Wet.
We are no longer pulling.
Standing. Silent.

Staring as a mother
Licks her dead firstborn
Clean.

El dolor de cabeza

El cielo estaba gris. Mi suéter era negro. La sangre roja, El dinero verde, la pintura un flujo de colores. Y tú eras blanca, tan blanca como la nieve que no cayó.

Caminamos por el puente, la puerta, los ocho pisos. Tantas cosas que pensar. Y es lo que hago. Me pongo a pensar. Pero pensar en ti, no me permite ignorarme a mí. Porque me pregunto si fue tu culpa, como de esto fue la mía. Sería más fácil culpar a alguien más, pero por supuesto fuimos nosotros. Casi te ríes, y me muero por saber cómo puedes hacer esto con una sonrisa.

¿Qué fue lo último que dijiste cuando te decapitaron? ¿Te la cercenaron o a caso fuiste tú? Yo también me he decapitado. Ella tenía la daga, pero la tenía bien guardada. Yo la busqué. Y al encontrarla, no había nada más que hacer. Vete, le dije después de todo, pero aquí está. ¿La ves sin tus ojos?

¿Que fue lo más doloroso para ti? Para mí, no fue el hecho en sí, sino lo que vino después. El verme caer, el verme llorar, el verme sin ojos.

En un instante se pierde todo y nadie lo puede devolver. Porque tú lo perdiste hace mucho. Pero no te enteras hasta ahora, cuando la ves sin ojos y te dice que todavía te ama. Todavía te ama. Es por eso que te ríes. Y regresas a tu cuarto con un dolor de cabeza.

Christmas in July

You came to our house.
Christmas.
You looked absolutely
Radiant.
There was snow.
White.
The tree was beautiful.
Green.
The air was cold, your cheeks
Red.
The dangling icicle lights
Bright.
My father guided you up the steps as he described the
Scenery.
I watched from a
Distance.
Shedding our skin, we unwrapped our presents, tearing the
Shiny
paper into thin, tiny
Shreds.
You sat and you stared, but you saw
Nothing.
I know you never saw
Me.
Blinded by guilt, I never fully saw
You.

We went to your house.
Saturday.
You were listening to one of your old cassettes.
Loud.
An audio book. Never
Music.
You must have loved to read
Tapes.
My dad turned it off and you
Screamed.
Something about the bills you had to pay.
Silence
was all that I could say. I heard your checkbook
Slam
against cold linoleum.
Hard.
I had never heard you
Argue.
I had never heard
You.

I was fourteen when you left.
July.
We never said
Goodbye,
but then again, we rarely said
Hello.
It seems we were both hard of
Hearing.
Death must have been your own
Christmas.
Because now you could finally
See.

Sand

.................................Saturday. At the beach
........................A starfish sucks my hand as you
...............crouch to gather sand dollars in your camisa
..............negra. I throw my five legged friend back into
..............the water; he’s our own shooting star. We watch
..............together; me as your fiancé, and you, solo una amiga.
................We’re playing tug of war. Constantly struggling.
..................A crawdad scurries through sand, making his
......................way back to the sea. Black, but brown
...............................on the edges, he simply can’t
........................................decide what he
.............................................wants to
....................................................be.

The World We Do Not See

Three men stare from inside the sun,
admiring the world that none of us see
The wind covers the silence as
circles swallow themselves, but do not eat.
A prehistoric robot stalks about
with his rabbit ear and the leg of a bird.
I hear what he does not say.
Hearing is far from understanding.
He tells me of a people, of
a society, much like our own. Yet they were
connected in ways we will never be.
The link that joins their orbs will forever
be unbroken. Picturing what once was,
I look at us, and see nothing

Cloudburst

Rain smells like sulfur as it pounds my face.
Running past trees, and through bushes, and hedge
You stop and tell me to look off the ledge.
Thousand of pots, boiling water encased
Rain hits them hard, just like God spraying mace.
Ghost of the pine gently scratches my head.
Singing to life, what the rain wanted dead.
Clouds rolling in, like a sigh out of place.

Thunder cries out and it’s time for the war.
Us against nature, we sing Louder Now.
Sprinting for safety, but somewhat unsure,
You’re walking leisurely, I can’t slow down.
Drops larger than days sink deep into pores.
Earth slurps it up as we head for dry ground.

A Few Drops Left

I

It smells like shit where I live. You would never come to visit. When you tell me to get a job, I can't help but laugh. You're drunker than I am, which is hard to do. It's only because you have more money to spend on alcohol. The beer can you threw at me still had a few drops left. Pressing it to my lips, it is the best booze I have ever tasted. Because it was a gift.

I crush the stiff aluminum,
as its
sharp
edges
cut and slice
my fingers.
The red fluid slowly covers the silver can
of Blood Light.
The moon reflects
off of the newly painted flask,
glistening more than ever.

II

You laugh as you check your purse for change and come up with nothing but car keys. I laugh too, but only because you are beautiful. I'd ask you to come home with me, but we both know I have no home. I've not been touched in sixteen years, and seeing you on your way to the club, there is little doubt that you'll get laid tonight.

Smiling casually,
nearly falling off you heels
as you make your
sharp
turn to walk away.
Your red dress, that
long
brown
hair.
You are the most beautiful
 dumpster I'll never dive in.

Words and Colors

Brown
the color of earth, the color of wood.
For me it will always be the color of
railroad ties,
the ones we’d count on our way to nowhere.
Walking behind you, I see the carcass of a horse
silenced by a passing train.
I point and tell you to look. Speechless, we both stop.
Dead in our tracks.
Whether we’d find a pheasant, a fox, a thousand words,
or nothing but a rusty brown spike,
we found it together.
You and me.
I miss those trips to the end of the world.

Blue
like the sky.
I remember each afternoon
watching out the window at the dark horizon,
waiting for the clock.
The short hand
finally pointing down, and the long one pointing up,
I’d hop on my bike.
Whizzing past the tulips,
I’d meet you at the corner
after your long day’s work.
Neither of us points it out,
but we both hear the silence growing
as we journey the short distance home.
My bright blue bicycle trailing behind you and your lunch box,
we’d sum up our days in a few short words.

Green
as grass
once taller than me.
You first. Then I’d follow,
silently placing my tiny feet where yours had been.
You stop and motion for me to come closer.
Crouching down, you point out the birds
flying overhead. Magpies you say.
You tell me we can catch one and teach it to talk.
Someday you say.
These massive, deep green fields
we’ve walked so many times
are now the words we cannot say,
the same short color of life
that we cut and harvest.