Self Portrait

1.31.12.


Just wait one more second,
one quick stab of the smallest needle.
I'll be different then.


Stratford-Upon-Avon
in 1600
when love's labour's were not lost.



Those shadowy mountains,
those bright morning mountains,
those lambent sunset mountains.


Running.
Inhaling the sagebrush air-
gasping for green coolness
800 miles away.


A dusty brocade journal
with a hand-written letter tucked in the front
written all in cursive. One spelling mistake.


Parents gulping poison
and regurgitating waste.
They say "just fix my kid."
I say "your kid has a name."




Two pairs of knees
on the threadbare carpet
at midnight
together.




Comparison,
companionship,
and commonplace angels that invite you to dinner.




The day we dissected a primrose in class.
Tore it apart
with a knife and our fingernails
to see if a soul was inside.




And now - 
one single tick that could be
a quick kiss,
a car door
a smile
a revelation -
and now, I'm someone else.


----


Dedicated to my aunt Julie. Thank you for inspiring me to write, and for being my wedding escort/planner /everything. Thank you for the dinners and the love, and most of all, thank you for saving my life that winter. Happy birthday.


Compare this self portrait to the one I did about a year ago. I wrote this with all-new material, but it contains a lot of old elements. Just like me, I guess.