two hundred and seven

under the lens i see the possible snafus
the attributes that were only facts
in the hours before:
the scars on my hands
the tattoo on my ankle
the short haircut
and unpolished nails

of course these are all on me,
not me, but a part of me and a part
that didn’t matter until i willing
put myself under the microscope
and tried to imagine what they may see
when looking back at me.

and then i realize the lens is self-imposed
that these worries are mine
because somewhere along the way
i learned to be worried of them

somewhere along the way i learned
that acceptance comes from wearing
long sleeves and getting manicures.

two hundred and six

how many times have we walked across the bridge
watching the river underneath reflect the moon’s
light and listening for the slightly drunken conversations
of others passing the night away in the city
each time has felt similar but the way our hands
find each other absentmindedly shows us that
each walk has been different, time has passed
and we are not who we were on the first walk
along the bridge, from what part of town
to the other. soon we’ll be leaving and this walk
will remain a memory we share of this place
when we come back to visit will we walk the path again,
watching the waves and feeling the breeze of a late summer night?

two hundred and four

lightning dances in the dark
like flashes from nature’s camera
as she takes a glance at what we are doing
as she works her magic

the lightning frightens the dog
and i can’t help but look each time
the white light seeps through the window
it is beautiful, to put it simply
beautifully mesmerizing
and terrifying to the five year old
who still lives within my body

still, i hope the rain falls throughout the night
and the dog cuddles closer with each roll
of thunder after the glistening light

i will listen in the darkness

two hundred and three

sometimes i look around, i read the headlines
listen to the news, catch comments from strangers
and friends. sometimes i listen to it all
and i worry

i worry because we do not sound
grounded and free. we do not sound
as though we are in this world together.
we do not sound as though we are
all fighting to stay alive, to live our dreams
to make it another day.

i worry because sometimes it sounds
as though we are far from our ultimate
connection, far from feeling as though
we are all one. i worry because sometimes
i realize we are not listening.
instead we cover ourselves, shield ourselves
with words and statements that do not
come from our own mouths. i worry because
we’ve lost our ability to communicate,
to come together, to see each other as human.

sometimes i look around and hope we wake up,
hope we begin to come out of our hiding
and hope we begin to speak to each other.
i hope we put down our shields and listen.

two hundred and two

the picture in my head is not the one i see in the mirror
do you see yourself in your own mind, flawed and beautiful,
slightly rounded cheeks and freckle on your tongue?
i am not sure who i see, but in my mind my hair is not
this new shape and my hands are not this dry but i am
rounder than i’d like to be and the stretch marks
are only growing more noticeable–in my mind’s eye.
i wonder if my mental picture will ever match what the mirror
shows and i wonder if it matters since the mirror can only
capture so much of the truth–after all, the view is filtered
by the eyes, by the brain, and you may be seeing green
when i see brown so who knows what is the truth
behold the sight and let it sink in that you are the
one in your mind and the one in the mirror and all
the versions in-between.