Circle Poems

My final scene is shot in a cemetery. It's upward of one hundred degrees. While the crew set up cameras and light panels, I observe a man assiduously tending his wife's grave. I sense her next to him. The usual we'll-all-get-there-one day thoughts trod through my head. My last line, is, something to the effect, of, "Thank you for helping me." I stand at my grandmother's headstone. I have lived this moment many times over. It's a familiar energy to conjure. After cast and crew clap/hug/high five me out, I unbutton the sweaty cotton of the pink striped shirt I wear I wear beneath a denim jumper. Stuff it in the laundry basket in my trunk. I swap ballet flats for sandals. Grab a baby can of diet coke from the cooler. Ebullient and proud, I settle in the driver's seat to, quest complete, rejoin my household. I turn out from graveyard gates. My costume is on a hotel hanger, taken from the room in the early blinking morning. I navigate side streets to return it. A supernatural podcast about the "hat man" plays. Another left, then a right. I reach the four-way stop a full breath before the car to my right. They remain still. As I turn left, a cubic shark-colored vehicle darts toward my driver side. Foot slips from gas, and I can't find the break pedal. I freeze ... or fawn, one or both of the f's. I call it my, "How bad is this going to get?" state. The specificity of my disappointment. "I won't be able to tell my son about today." Surrender to the moment. I don't know what part of their car touches mine, nor how either of us maneuver. It is quiet, no honking or screeching. No human vocalizations. A brief jolt, loud click, quarter of a second rumble... and ... I'm once more on course. The gray box speeds away. Instinctively, I continue to a gas station two blocks away. I cannot find evidence of the autos' brief collision. Unharmed, I refuel and resume the ghost stories. 78 minutes later, I walk through my front door. The first thing I do is light a candle, then I text my family: I made it.

My heart is elastic, not broken, reassembled. The piece that almost fit. I keep it there, bulging slightly in unfinished puzzle. Honestly, I'll never re-box the picture; It remains dignified and glorious in its incomplete state. I felt so young on Thursday night, alive in a way that felt impossible just months ago. The wheel turns, love, you'll be okay, your heart is elastic too.

I relish being seen, receive your firefly gaze. Light up July, take my photograph. Hold a piece of me no one else will know.

No one knows the shape of a wound, even if they fit inside it. It's belief I'm after; Clap your hands.

The peace I have made and make; There is no outcome more powerful than reconciling oneself to reality. The pixie dust of acceptance that charges matter(s of fact). Road of yellow bricks, a field of black opium poppies, technicolor arc in front of clouds. (Cart before horse.) Strange brush with Lemuria, city sunk in mountain. A Japanese woman creates art she finds in an alternate dimension inhabited by kawaii bunny rabbits. She has her own meditation chamber, rents it out by the half hour. I bought a diagram she made of angel wings. To each their own understanding of the universe, of soul, of self. I think everything I've lost can be found under the couch or at the back of my closet with the cats' forgotten toys. A waterfall of fairy tears, the tectonic shifting of earth, perpetual motion, sip from hidden spring, infinite discovery, expansive/elastic self.

You can't starve a feeling, I think, as I notice the Cottonwood shade has shifted off my parked car.

Around age 20, I wrote a piece titled, My Resignation. The first line: "Not to react." This meant stifling reflexive responses to deescalate/diffuse cycles of abuse. If my then-partner's goal was to elicit a reaction, I would double down on endless endurance. I refused to feed his sadism. But the pressure, the heat, it increased. Inevitably, the proverbial pot boiled over. For the next several years, not to react meant staying frozen. I checked out of my body when reality grew too uncomfortable. I refused to be present for whatever conflict found me. Abandoning self over and again, while I hoped the ceiling might fall on my head. Now, I observe my reactions, allow them space. It is possible to not take it personally, while taking "it" seriously. I trust your word, your action. Everyone shows you who they are. Believe them, particularly when they are honest and kind. When they are not, trust they'll find their way. Don't feel the need to understand. Resignation for me has morphed into perseverance. People change; I have changed. This is the alchemy of growth.

difficult read.

Why do gin and lime go so well together? I am at the stage of life where I can sip a single cocktail and be done. I can make myself small, I can make myself tall. I wrap myself around other people's words and worlds. I have remade my life from found material. I keep asking, I keep receiving. I am not without doubt, yet I embody confidence. Stop at a railroad crossing, makes me late for work. Try to find another way around, but ultimately wait for the train to move. I'm not in control of the tracks, the cars, the other travelers, but I am in command of myself. He uses the word "fun" to describe knowing me again. The director says my eyes are everything. What shall I do with all this tart self esteem? Not wait for anyone else to tell me a goddamn thing.

Mail carrier hands me a package, as June breeze sweeps through open door. It's a book of photographs you took of phallic graffiti while living in Spain. The pages smell like you, which is strange because I hadn't thought I'd recognize your scent. I have a clear memory of holding your sweatshirt briefly in the Morgan Ave. apartment; Noting the fabric smelled like safety at what was for me an unsafe time. No note or inscription. You are spare with words. We exchange few, but an abundance of delta wave gossip continues. Recovering your friendship has been a prolonged exhale. Before I recycle the box, I capture the return address for a future thank you.

I am drunk in the dream, text an acquaintance whose number I don't know in real life. Tell him I love him, which I don't. But I like him enough, I care what he thinks. When sober, I brainstorm a cute mea culpa to dispel weirdness. I can't and leave it be, look at a bag of meth an enemy left hidden in an envelope. In some clout war with a band of misfits who don't think I've suffered enough in my life to share their neighborhood. I'm back in college working on an animated performance of myself acting out all preceding action. Back in a rural town with unnavigable roads, but excellent coffee. Hiding from an ex-lover, confiding in another. I've been in talks all week, any time I sleep more than seven hours. I read your daughter's palm, speak at length to my dad. I see my future and travel to my past. A midnight intersection of every decision and relationship. I keep hold of my soul, thank you very much. No one will break or own me, I repel unwanted touch.

To be farther north than usual, near the solstice, is powerful. Night sky scant and gaudy: falling stars and satellites, like glitter on naked skin. Something green, a smell, a sight. A warm moment, family contract. We are more posy than bouquet, and it suits us fine. We know how to find humor in absurdity, and wisdom in delays. We are best at not attacking one another in difficult moments. Carry peace inside, that's all we can hope to achieve, aside from love.