A Gloss on Fred Astaire

Despite what is clearly
a preference for
escaping scrutiny -
I cannot help but
pay too much attention
to the curls in your hair
the light in your beard
and the cut of your jaw
which are so
lovely to look at. 

I have also found
(after much study, which I beg you to forgive)
a cleverness which
when paired with a silly premise
and such grounded stillness
makes you
delightful to know. 

And,
if you can pardon the intrusion
into very personal territory
I will request further investigation
into the scent of you.
Tied ever close to the sense of taste,
evoking memories of such
soft lips -
heaven to kiss. 

Please accept this poem as an apology
for any unwelcome intrusions.
I have a problem with
Impulse Control
and it is so difficult
to resist
a combination like this. 

voice

I have always struggled with my relationship
with my own voice.

It is loud and deeper than other,
more feminine,
voices.

I have a tendency to talk,
let's say,
'alongside'
someone.
(when I talk at all, that is)

I have been told for years
that I needed to wait in line to speak.
and I get frustrated with myself
that somehow
I cannot.

And I am always acting like I am fighting to be heard -
I should feel guilt about that.

I do.

But does he?
Him?
What about the man that interrupted you, yesterday?
Did they realize that there was a thought,
there, in your mouth,
when they opened theirs?

I don't want to feel guilt, anymore,
about inserting myself over
(alongside)
people who feel no guilt about asserting themselves
over me.

aggressively antisocial

someone called you
"aggressively antisocial"
today.

Aggressive
and
Antisocial.

Two words I would never use
to describe you.

nothing about you is aggressive
in fact
if you were a sentence
I'm sure you would be written
in the passive voice

you said half a thought today
because someone interrupted you
and you did not try to finish it.

you are not antisocial
"have you gotten more than three words out of him?"
I wanted to say
Yes!
several more, in fact, some quite large -
and you would know, if you had asked him
anything, at all.

you do not compete for airtime
which is just fine
to someone who is not interested in
making our conversation
a competition.

that poem and A Second Gloss on Elizabeth Brewster

i was listening to

that podcast

and they threw back to

that show

that we listened to 

when we were driving 

back from 

that place 

one night. 

and it made me 

suddenly aware

of exactly how many things

can make me think of you. 

-----------------

I am writing now

To pass the time

While I am waiting for you to telephone.

- Elizabeth Brewster

earlier i was in the bath

and i thought of you. 

i didn't text you about it

so instead 

I am writing now

it's to early to sleep 

but I spent all my 

self care

on that bath.

what else will I do

To pass the time

putting the words down comforts me. 

i have always liked the deliberation

this word changed

that line switched

three times 

back

just to occupy the parts of me that obsess

so i can pace around something other than my living room

While I am waiting for you to telephone.

If you weren't there, I wouldn't move.

Even now - 

If you tell me that 

After we unpack my apartment, 

You're leaving, 

I'll go back to retail. 

I am uprooting my life for you.
I do not want to leave my friends

What little family I have

For someone who is waiting 

To feel okay about leaving me.

Please don't take the credit

For making me safe,

Just to leave.

There's no award.

Parenting I and II

I want my son to see a healthy home.
                                 joy.
                                 love.

I want him to hear
"I am so glad you exist"
instead of thinking I regret bringing him into this world.

I want,
more than I want my own happiness,
for him to feel safe.
                      strong.
                      unafraid.

I have been afraid for
26 years.

Afraid of being homeless.
                        hungry.
                        cold.

Afraid of being alone.

I have always said,
"Do not stay in impossible relationships 'for the kids'."
And I stand by that.

But I understand the impulse.


-----------------------------------

I learned how not to parent.

Don't have an abusive husband.
Don't be an alcoholic.
Don't abandon your children.
Don't lie.

But that kind of knowledge only leaves a void.

A child is a vessel that gets filled
with dreams
(theirs, and yours)
and ideas.

A lacking is not,
By definition,
And I do not want him
To be filled with emptiness.

low art

I can make World of Warcraft
into high literature
(If you would listen)
Or Ke$ha into a classic
(the ballads of my generation).
Because art that is for the unwashed masses
is still art,
if you are smart enough to see it.

"My heart sleeps in the Emerald Dream."
Is still the most romantic thing
I've ever heard
and Tyrande stopped saying it
seven years ago.

I remember falling in love
in Azeroth.

A timeless love
for a full-hearted woman
gave one brother the strength to fight for his people,
and drove one brother to madness
(the one who, all things considered, loved her more).

Maybe that was her objection -
To come before all else requires a certain level of
helplessness
which has always been beyond her.
This huntress, priestess, leader,
lover.

A man guided by selfish love,
propelled by the emptiness of being
the second-best twin
Searching, always, for his place
Is no kind of man for Tyrande.
With a destiny thrusted upon her,
she had no time to be his keeper,
or his guide.

Instead did she pick the man
who would leave her alone
(not expecting, of course, ten thousand years
of peace and quiet)
to rule her people,
only to be told "no" when it mattered most.
(She did it anyway.)

For a long time I was disappointed.
You wake her lover up,
Just to split them into their own stories?
Where is the undying devotion?
Ten thousand years of waiting, and wanting?
Have they fallen out of love?

Of course not.

The older I get,
The more I realize that love is not togetherness.

It is the coming together after distance.
It is the letting go when someone leaves.

Maybe she did love that second best twin,
after all,
And in ten thousand years, maybe I will understand.

And look, here it is -
A poem of love and loss,
pain, and growth -

certainly not low art.