Some kisses are apologizes, some are hurried preludes to more, and some are engagement rings and lasting dreams. And his kiss, this lingering kiss on my shoulders, was like he was admiring the strength of where I carry my burdens. He traced his lips up the staircase that leads to my hungry mind only to move back to the gentle dip of my collarbone filled with Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte.
This is when I froze in utter confusion. Normally we are in a rushed dance, one where true affection and feelings are not required. We agreed on casual kissing, but in my heart there has never been anything casual about kissing. That’s not the “chill” thing to think, and truthfully I am about as chill as the Sub-Saharan Desert on a good day. Because with every kiss I want to say, “Come rest your heart here” but I save it for a time he’s not in such a hurry. That time never comes.
That is until he kissed my shoulders. For a moment it felt he was there to stay. The moon can tell the earth its uninterested but its orbit says otherwise. Yet it’s silly of me to pretend he is my moon because I am no earth- I am a blazing wildfire and he wants a calm sea to swim on occasion.
I’m kidding no one, not even myself. Regardless of how many kisses we twist ourselves into I can’t become someone I was never meant to be. I can’t be someone’s sea when I am meant to burn.
Art Courtesy of Eugenia Loli
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
I recite literature to God. He likes the ones I can’t get through without tears, mainly because He knows I’m offering my soul and not just steering words with autopilot.
Sometimes I use my own, other times someone says it better than I ever could and I trust that God accepts it the same. So this one Thursday night, Sylvia Plath said my prayer,
“I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn’t quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
As I sat under Plath’s fig tree God remained tied tongued- tongue tied, I wondered if He too was trying to borrow just the right words.
After laying in that awful silence for over a week God spoke, “I saw thee under the fig tree, believest thou [me]? Thou shalt see great things than these.” Luke 1:50.
The silence was broken to remind me God has always been the best of Poets..
Art Courtesy of Carlo Mattioli
Robert Desnos “J’ai tant rêvé de toi”
I moved back to Hawaii this week. My friends have been gone for a while now and I’ve had time to bask in my radiant solitude.
I’ve made space for poetry again. For barefoot sandy morning runs. For acai bowls while feeling the receding tide tickling my sunburn. I feel joy.. Today I feel far from lost.
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
— David Wagoner
For her love is a hostage situation
it takes hold and no longer can she control
herself, captive is her mind and her sanity.
Any semblance to a balanced and
stable woman is gone into a sort
of dependence no one could deem safe
but just like that, love took her again
Art courtesy of Guim Tio
when your little girl
asks you if she’s pretty
your heart will drop like a wineglass
on the hardwood floor
part of you will want to say
of course you are, don’t ever question it
and the other part
the part that is clawing at
will want to grab her by her shoulders
look straight into the wells of
her eyes until they echo back to you
you do not have to be if you don’t want to
it is not your job
both will feel right
one will feel better
she will only understand the first
when she wants to cut her hair off
or wear her brother’s clothes
you will feel the words in your
mouth like marbles
you do not have to be pretty if you don’t want to
it is not your job
Onto the bed he carefully lowered me
like a china set, that same set You
broke last month
He poured himself onto me
I opened everything- my arms
my mouth, my legs.. except my heart
This whole time You’ve had it
What a shame it is, to attempt to
love someone while wishing
he were You