Posts tagged personal

Despite my fervent desire to leave Ohio, someone once told me I would become one of those sentimental assholes who romanticizes the state anyway and encapsulates it into an unjustifiably beautiful picture.

…..Nah.

In Autumn, On The Way

Foot taps gas,
calf muscle contracts,
and eyes squint toward
the bright sun of a Saturday morning:
perpetual inhabitant of a transient space.

The crows along state route 13
milemark the way home,
white tails flush into the woods from the open road -
silos pregnant with farmers’ gold
dot my peripherals in the distance.

Machine of modern technology
rides swift and close past the eighteen-wheeler
on its way to somewhere, past the great American combine,
the Amish horse stamping at the crossroads:
back a silver of sweat,
mouth full of steam.

Through the walls of green silk mazes
and into the hotel-strewn highway of
tourists and lake vistas,
speedometer a wild metronome -
dust on the dash flies up over
old railroad ties and grits the windows.

We wrote things to each other.
I found your notebook.
“We should do it again sometime.”
Amanda. Te ves muy bonita. Lastima que te vas.
Joel - Pero regreso! Sos lindo.
A penguin, a face, fire hearts and snakes.
Amor es dolor.
Hola como te vas? Hi is this right.
Religion. Como ser buena persona.
Tengo sueño. No puedo hablar.
Helado. Dulce de leche. Vanilla.
What’s the word for fork again?
Besame, besame, besame.
Mimos, you smell like that candle.
RR. rr. Ferrocarril.
Me sale mal. Ahí está.
Voy al baño.
Ah está, ahí está.
Que te calles, fingers in my mouth.
Todo hueso, no?
DNI, pibe. I’m older than you.
Como puede ser?
A knock, a scold, a dueña, vete.

The bright sun of Sunday morning.

Days like today I think of you in your pea coat,
The collar parting sharply along your neckline
Like an invitation,
And, if the wind is strong,
Framing your face to keep away the bite.
I think of that magic trick warmth - the one where
You hold my hands outstretched and

(light as a feather stiff as a board)

Hold yours above like airplane wings,
Spilling a downdraft of body heat onto my skin,
I think of all the words you’ve given me -
Things I keep close in spite of the burning.
I think of the way you opened your palms to me.

Like a child I waited for the butterflies
Stretching new wings,
Petrichor and dawn.

Today I found a picture of an old friend that made me want to kiss him
On the mouth - no.
On the nose, tender like a gosling feather.
To cup his face in my hand like a lost animal,
To run my ring finger down the crinkle of his nose,
Make my face his mirror image.
To uncurl his brow like smoothing out a crumpled page,
Like smearing pastels over watercolor paper,
Blend them outward into his crow’s feet,
blend them inward into my skin.

I will tap his hat with my hand, playfully,
His hands in reflex will fly up to meet mine, readjust.
Cocky-smiled boy with an unlit cigarette behind his ear -

You are a world unto itself and you know it.

This is for you.

…I apparently write really sappy love poems.

Luceros

Smooth legs slide against each other -
the flash of your teeth bright against the grass,
trading coy miradas in the heightened afternoon,
collarbone arcing like the curve of the world.

And it’s good to be alive,
to breathe in and believe every romanticised word,
and every sunny dream; esperar,
without twisting your frame right side up to make sure.

Easy laughter like a chattering brook -
how fond we are of similes and sonrisas.
today could last eight hours or five minutes
as long as we have this firefly jar feeling.

And we slip into impressions rápidamente,
grass angels marking best intentions.
his breath light against your ear,
a flock of purple martins against your chest.

And this is all too dazzlingly wonderful,
vertiginosamente sweet, fallen feathers
in your hands cupped like frail kits,
kissed with brandy and promises.

He is tall, perhaps, you’re short.
but you’re both so boca arriba it doesn’t matter.
Worlds collide so infrequently like this -
dusted gold in disbelief.

-a side note to this disgustingly cutesy poem would be that, for the longest time, i was convinced that the word “vertiginosamente” didn’t really exist (much to my dismay, as it strikes my fancy quite a bit), until one awful, rainy day, as i was trying to creep in on a conversation in the middle of the fresh vegetable aisle of walmart, i heard it. it was the only thing i understood, it came pouring out of this lady’s mouth like some glorious snake of a word, like a fantastic ribbon of perfect syllables. and it made my whole week.

It’s funny when a man isn’t what you expect him to be.

For so long it seems the intimacy I’ve shared with significant others has been pretty fairly balanced. It seems to naturally happen that I wind up with extremely caring and sensitive and open men, which has been a surreal blessing - to always be able to ask them what they’re thinking, to sometimes not even have to ask. I am used to copious amounts of affection, of which I’m not fond but to which I’m more accustomed. I’m used to chronically open arms and long, long cuddle sessions.

And you’ve thrown my footing completely off-kilter. I don’t know what you’re thinking. I don’t know how you feel. My friends always joke of men as “mysteries wrapped in enigmas,” but I never really knew them to be that way. This is so far out of my realm of recognition and, to a degree, comfort. You have me shifting this way and that, in every chair, in every situation. Cannot figure it out and it’s maddening.

I like feeling knowledgeable, in control, able to plan and see what’s going to happen next. Even a slight vulnerability is enough to put me over the edge, but somehow I’m still ridiculously open. Maybe you feel the same and instead withdraw? Maybe everyone else I knew was really backwards.

There is an irresistible allure that comes with a closed mouth, an undeniable desire to know more, an indescribable joy when you reveal something, no matter how insignificant. And I pick it up, cradle it like a jewel, stick it in my back pocket and try to piece you together hint by hint. But I don’t know how long this will continue, if my little treasure hunt will just dead-end or whether the maze goes on forever. I’m not sure which I’d prefer.

All I know is that there’s a little spot of joy inside me whenever you do look at me with a longing, whenever you brush the hair out of my eyes (I can count the times you’ve done so on one hand), when you touch my face slowly and with purpose, and I love that. Is it enough? I find myself always wanting more, which is a foreign concept to me. Do I like that feeling? I don’t know. This isn’t necessarily a problematic situation more as it is an emotional curiosity and process of experimentation. But whatever it is, I hope it works out.