Sweet Mother, I cannot weave -

The smell of coffee, roasted beans, fresh whole milk, 

espresso expressing how I feel inside. Where did

the room go, with the dim lighting and the comfort of

a successful day?  Where did I go, when the lights

flicked on and the spots appeared in my eyes, a 

disco ball of colors, of a life I wish I lived?

--

Take me back to those days of security.  When

breathing came easy and every flower sprouted

from yesterday’s soil with renewed intent to

grow.  Stronger, taller, more powerful.  I am

in control now.  The smell of coffee brings 

me back to the beginning.  Grandma’s kitchen

on Thanksgiving - After Turkey, before we

break out the rainbow cookies and sfogliatelle.

Colombian Folgers.  Where are the pastries 

So much of the time,

anxiety buzzes in my skin like bees.

i have always been afraid of insects.

But You.

In Your arms the bees fall silent.

The ceaseless fluttering of rapid wings

cannot reach me here.

And yet still i tremble.

The irresistible refuge of your embrace

is an expense i must pay in installments.

Flayed raw, my body betrays instincts.

Fight or flight is not an acceptable response

to someone who loves you.

How beautiful, this bespoke cage of feeling,

gilded gold and forged by my own hand.

Certainly preferable to the cold cast iron

of the beehive.

Daisy, your pedestal is much too high.

It is fair to neither of us, and

the bees are starting to catch on.

Bronzed and ascending, they loom

in pillars, turning in wrath to wasps —

Didn’t i know that the honey you gave me

was but only a top-shelf poison?

But happiness forsaken for fear is

a choice I cannot justify.  Steeled,

I wait for first sting. I wait.

The Tabasco sauce sits to my left on the table.

I imagine myself plucking it from its place -

Slipping it - into my bag.  Walking out the diner.

My fingers itch. I tell my boyfriend what I am planning.

No, he says. You will get caught.

I won’t. I know it. I bounce in my booth.

Caress the glass jar with the tips of fingers.

It always happens like this.

My boyfriend is usually good at helping me realize

What is not a good idea.

But sometimes I convince myself -

Am I convinced? - so well

that what I want is what I want.

If I don’t know what I want, how can he?

It is night and the moon watches us glisten down below.

He rides me into the leaves and I am beside the moon

Not in my body, while he does.

My boyfriend is not a rapist, but when I go home

And I shower, foliage catches in the drain.

I am afraid.

I don’t remember making these decisions -

The acts are movies I play over, and over,

And over.

How did I get here?

You scare me when you get like this.

Like strawberries in chocolate - Sweetness is irrelevant If one is allergic to the fruit.

explore the skin beneath my blouse.

I lean in to kiss you because it is the

only way I can think of

To let you know that I will cherish

You would not believe me, but it gets better.

There will be a time when each breath you take feels less like a constant reminder of your own perceived cowardice and more like a sunrise.

Weeks when your gait is lightened by the knowledge that you are going somewhere and not leaving something.

Days when the ocean is just an ocean and not a last resort.

If only I could make this easier for you - Tell you that there is a place

where you will look around in awe and say:

“I did it! I’m alive! I’m alive!”

And the World is still but We are turning

to soft comforts and in-between spaces.

Like minds see same truths.

Fingers grasp for outstretched hands