Rippling

Down the fragile limbs of the sycamore

time was gentle, softly blowing

when I was small.  It was easy

to stare at cornfields. But later I found myself

by the pond on the edge

of rippling stalks, tangled.  Time

was fast because I was as tall
as I’d ever be, because Grandma
had died in sunlight. I couldn't stop

wondering why, why,

why she looked through me from the hospital bed, why
 she clutched my hand violently.  It surprises me

         
that I’m still
devoted to her
fear.

if heaven would come

it would be like that time in the small

upstairs kitchen when I watched my new

friend as she slowly cut cucumbers. mint fear

stopped rustling like the pines in

my grandparent’s backyard. somehow,

between bits of tabouli, we sank into

acceptance—an oil that fried us

until golden and light.

unbroken by peers and recess, by

the two streams of snot that used to drip

to Andy’s lips, smudging “unlovable”

across his face when he was barely six. whole despite

the summer before Junior High, when I traced

milkweed and train tracks, burning

because I could never date Josh Hershey

without cooler jeans and a better ass.

that evening we forgot to be “good enough.” I twisted

lemons and it felt like heaven.  wingin’ it, like jazz, we

were free.

the time i said, "i hate you."

I

tumbled

frantic snapping

force.  I cut those lyrics

when I was  small in a stairwell. my

brother looked up at me from the bottom.

slowly, carefully, he said “you should never tell

anyone that you hate them.  you can’t ever take it back.”

soybean heart

mom used to say that I make mountains

(out of molehills).  I've had a long time to

ripen, but when things get too warm my soybean heart bursts spindly growths.  I don’t

have any business giving advice.

I've got no

business acting sturdy.