Tag Archives: heartbreak

whitefeather

What? What? What?

The next morning I awoke early, dreadful breathing sighs into chamomile tea. I walked to work, tears breaking as waves. Later we drove to the site of your crash, where your family was already gathered. The sun was high and hot. We listened and walked as members of your tribe lead us from the end point, where your car came to rest. Back through where you tumbled and spit shards of glass and plastic, back, back where the grass was barely bent, to where you swerved off Old Olympic Highway. There weren’t even marks on the road. Back to the point where twenty-feet-further-you-wouldn’t-have-rolled. And we faced your mother while elders sang your spirit safely to the other side. I saw you laying in the field, pulling up grass and laughing.

I was dehydrated and head throbbing, numb. Oren bought us sandwiches and drove us to a bluff where we sat in the open hatchback shaded by trees. He made jokes and distractions; scooping up pebbles of time, and tossing them gently behind me.

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s/ ladd’s addition

/I wanted to tell you I remembered that day in the roses/
 

I wanted to tell you that
I do remember some things,

I remember that night in the roses
a stranger turned friend at happy hour
with the drop of a whatever he’s having
a tweed cap and a journal to pass the time
while he waited on the lunar eclipse
scheduled sometime between
us eating chocolate, legs swinging atop a mossy ledge
and
slow dancing in the last of the wet summer blooms
confusing the steps and laughing up steam

I remember that night in the roses
too narrow sidewalks pushed us into single file,
two butts, one bike, past wiry wet lavander
I interrupted the parade to wax poetic about the Pleiades
recalling the seven sisters and other witches
while she schemed a surprise third-date-kiss,
that would feel like a first
something  a little less alcoholic to lift us, 
out of our indivudual and unspoken sorrows

I remember that day in the roses
sun glitttered the blood colored blossoms, fallen, dripping and done
a tender and light-footed pair,
we were penciling new maps, fingering mosses
through the newly hollowed structures of our past
I was shamelessly swollen and open, 
walking boldy on a half-healed broken heart
and you were somewhere between,
wrapped in new bliss and deja vu
and for the first time in two years 
almost content with I am just I
and you are just you.


a list of things I do instead of calling you

1. cry
2. cry
3. get drunk
4. wallow
5. break my key off in the door
6. fall over in front of the cemetery
7. cry next to the cemetery
8. throw my phone in the ocean
9. sleep
10. walk the dog
11. drive to the valley
12. look for eagle feathers
13. play the piano
14. write letters to friends
15. go to therapy
16. vent
17. try to jerk off but cry instead
18. nap
19. make coffee
20. practice tarot
21. sew
22. make a stencil
23. read a book
24. wheatpaste
25. write a song
26. eat salmon
27. do a reading at YAAC
28. be proud of myself


si

see, the thing is
the last time I saw you
you were fanning stars from your eyes

and I knew it was my fault

I remember the first time I asked to kiss you
summer on the porch

and when granpa died
and I crawled into bed and you held me

I remember asking to call you my girlfriend
wrapped around each other on the little acorns

I remember how you would taste
kissing hello after biking

reading your homework to you
avoiding mine

doing laundry together
holding hands on the bus

morning rituals of kissing you awake
and coffee

your patience
and forgiveness

and when we cried goodbye
in the shower

see, the problem is
I’m grieving all over again

because I’m remembering
all of you that I want
and cannot have.


I like the naturopath.

Little ice-melt pebbles crunch under our boots as we trace her daily path through the hospital doors. There’s a little “cover your cough” stand with sanitizer and paper masks. She takes a mask and stretches it over her head, two boney manicured hands, ring finger diamonds sparkling. The taunt white elastic band presses onto the delicate skin of the scar on her neck. We pass a gorgeous photograph of a bear cub playing with a moose antler on a river bank, a white porcelain Mary, and a chapel. The chapel intrigues me. The chapel bothers me, as if to say, you’re going to need to start praying.

We sit down with the naturopath in his office. He is a handsome Jewish man who looks you directly in the eyes when he speaks. My first impression was that he was too hurried. She mentions a GI tube consult she’s going to later. He explains the ridges of the GI system, what chemo/radiation can do to it, and why it’s better to eat orally rather than through a feeding tube. Use it or loose it. Out the huge windows of his office is a wide view of scratchy black trees clinging to the white sky and fogged mountains. I wonder what makes things grow upward, what the trees reach for, what is beyond. It’s a good distraction from listening to my mother talk about loosing her sense of taste, hair and will to eat. He tells me to feed her lots of  Indian food, tumeric. He turns to her, “Do you like the taste of ginger?” He asks her about her skin, explains melatonin with drawings on scrap paper. She shows him all of the new freckles showing up on her neck and face. I think it’s the cutest fucking thing ever and it makes me want to jump out of my seat and hug her. I think about tattooing them on me. I think about the matching freckle we’ve always had on our left hands just below the thumb.

As the naturopath wraps up the appointment he tells me to start stealing Queezy Pops for her from the radiation desk. I decide I like him.


a kiss goodnight

I remember how good you were to me
I remember yellow walls, like butter
I remember feeling uncomfortable, unfamiliar
in the big city
back when I was afraid of new things

I remember your mother’s kind smile
I remember her hands
out of the city I remember the rolling hills
I shrugged my shoulders at them then
but they are breath taking in my memory
I remember the dog sleeping underneath the steps

I remember falling in love with your writing
I wish I could remember it now
I carried your picture around
showing it off, I was so proud of you

I remember my blood staining your bed
a coffee ring on a wooden table
laying in your bed
inspecting your curls, and gentle eyes
I remember your shyness
and my eagerness

I remember watching you play guitar
painting your nails black
singing to you that night on the block before your mother’s home
I remember light through the blinds
the morning your mom caught us together in bed

we played Nine Inch Nails and Tool the first time
I had asked my best friend what cum tasted like
tears, she said
how romantic, I thought
but it didn’t taste like tears

I loved you in whatever way fourteen year olds can love
you know, I’m still the same, back and forth
fickle and confused about love
how might things be different now
if I hadn’t treated your heart like a doormat?

I remember one night you sat on the edge of the bed
tucking me in, under high ceilings
I remember your beautiful sincere face as I closed my eyes
and you softly kissed me goodnight


little bird

I cried about you
all the way to sleep,
little bird
your familiar toothy grin
I remembered for a moment how propelled I am by love
and how sweetly you did and do
and are
how sweet you truly are
oh little bird,
I cry even now
I never wrote you a single word
and I don’t know how to begin
or end