This forest is dense
redwoods loom balefully
I run my hands along their bark

My breath comes too quickly
it sounds like laughter
I can feel your eyes on me

The fog surges in our open mouths
I'm facing you now
I don't think I can turn away

I don't remember stepping closer
we're standing on quicksand
my fingers clutch yours

It's not dangerous like I thought
I can breathe between grains of sand
I like it underground

I step into your body
I can't feel anything but you
I don't want to leave
and I can't.

we hope and we dream,
not for reality,
but for moments and scenes
that are not what they seem
shimmering behind sheens,
sparkling on silver screens
we do not see the deep
cuts, the endless lost sleep
promises they won't keep;
no, we thought love was cheap
so what now of our dream?
still, who are we to deem
that it can't be redeemed
and to now call unclean
these faults that we have seen?
is it beyond our reach
to both learn and to teach
our tongues new ways of speech
to taste something so sweet
we may forgive that heat
and venture to entreat
that we somehow may meet
in the vastness between
our mistakes and our dreams?

when I gave all my love to you
and had none of it left for
myself.

useless.
My hair still covers my ears
though I begged my hairdresser
for shorter.
It would make me look old
she said.
Maybe that's what I want
           something new
maybe anything.
           I've got to see someone else
in the mirror this time
           someone who doesn't leave
the door unlocked
           who doesn't get left
           in the rain
no umbrella.
Not the long blonde girl.
She was a liar, too -
           I think -
(is it still a lie if you believe it's true?)
but she found the solution
           reinvention
right?
She was...
dissatisfied, we'll say
she grasped in the dark
           to recreate herself.
And she fit right in
with all the people trying to stand out.
New is better:
modern is the definition of progress
           isn't it?
And now
I see myself
standing just where she stood
and wonder
if you met her,
would you know me?
           Beyond the mirror
a generation of people
uniformly unique
           like me
I close my eyes
I am only individual in isolation.

Last decade, Jenny was jumping on
trampolines after softball games
and teaching all the girls new curse
words. She’d spill Sprite in her
fiery hair and cackle until her
eyes welled up, then she’d sprint
all the way home and pull a dusty music box
from under her bed and squeeze
her eyes shut so she didn’t see
the tears splatter on the little ballerina
twirling away naivety. She never knew
the scent of old mahogany
would slam into her
on lonely Thursday evenings, years later,
in the bowling alley where she
sits by herself and watches
the pins fall over
and over. She never was
as graceful as they.
And the scent makes her head
spin and her breath shake and her
knees ache and her eyes water and
when she squeezes them shut
all she sees is every drop of herself she
spent in youth, now dried up
like old Sprite in her hair.