here I am

I always find myself asking

if I should write this down

if this moment is good enough to turn into prose

life is poetry

clementines, mandarins, oranges,

satsumas, and tangerines.

sunshiny citrusy spherical fruits

as it goes, I’m translucent to many

sometimes elevated to a crystalline idol, marveled at on display

I’ve worked as a pair of spectacles, an exhausting existence in a hazy world

a few have grinned at my polished exterior, finding their desires reflected in me

unseeing eyes glossing over the warped surface they behold

you, on the other hand, have focused your vision just so

seeing through me, to me

your eyes steady, undeterred, perceptive, tenderly noting ripples and cracks

I try not to shatter in the heat of your gaze

you see, you’re all I’ve ever wanted

although a simple query,

even elementary

I still struggle to answer:

which color is your favorite?

but then I begin to speak,

poised to open up my beak,

head cocked, as I am stumped at

such a silly non-question

red, first, I think I should say

shining pomegranate rubies,

scarlet filling lip ridges,

smiles and blushing faces,

red rimming his eyes today.

orange, maybe, should be said

beams of warmth tanning my skin,

bulbs that crisp to perfection,

breath sweetly spiced after chai,

orange words: soon I’ll be dead.

yellow is what my mouth nears

promise of summer wishes,

perfect bell pepper ripeness,

pictures that capture a glint,

yellow bus ride blurred through tears.

green seems like a worthy choice

topping the treading mallards,

tree tops tickling the sky,

truest mirrored reflection,

green nausea tinges my voice.

blue, sure, is what it could be

riveting windshield-topped glass,

ripples and crests and troughs,

relinquishing a burden,

blue uncertainty drowns me.

purple opinion mingles

handwriting that you’re proud of,

hundreds of thousands of wildflowers,

haze revealed in dawn’s shadow,

purple relief still tingles.

stunned, I want to turn away,

they don’t want what I might say.

each has so much to offer!

I have this idea that anything I’ve thought of

has already been thought of before

someone else must have thought of it first

and I’ll find what I’m looking for out there because it’s already been created

there’s no way I could craft something entirely new

I am not a creator

I never will be

I can only put together pieces of what I find

every word is a combination of the same letters

every sentence comprised of dictionary words

the hero’s journey may wear a thousand faces but it is still the same story

if I have thought of it, it already exists

it must be out there somewhere

and I will find it

because I am not the first

Jeanette Winterson

Iain Thomas

I’d heard of the importance of taking up space

but never believed I was made of matter

maybe some quantum particle

whose existence changes based on the observer

I smile when you leave your dirty mug on my desk

and find your old laundry in the washer

people know you’re near

from my full belly laughter

you weren’t in my dream last night

but there was an impression of you

as clear as an indent on a couch cushion

or a stack of dishes in the sink

a sense of existence and presence

I remember smiling, in the dream

there was a strange competition

with the enticing prize of a private bedroom

like admiring monet’s water lilies

or irises painted by van gogh

I couldn’t decipher the meaning

when I was standing so close

but still I laughed to myself

baffled and not sure why

I wasn’t moved by their prize