No Matter the Wreckage: Poems

Forgive yourself for the decisions you have made, the ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night

Is there a word for the moment you win tug-of-war? When the weight gives, and all that extra rope comes hurtling towards you, how even though you've won, you still end up with muddy knees and burns on your hands? Is there a word for that? I wish there was.

My world was the size of a crayon box, and it took every colour to draw her

I will love you with too many commas, but never any asterisks.

Oh, Brother. No matter your wreckage. There will be someone to find you beautiful, despite the cruddy metal. Your ruin is not to be hidden behind paint and canvas. Let them see the cracks.

How strange, that when you are away, I reach for my cell phone's buzz as if it were your hand. Each shiver in my pocket, a way to find you.

Some nights, I wake up knowing he is anxious. He is across the world in another woman's arms and the years have spread us like dandelion seeds, sanding down the edges of our jigsaw parts that used to only fit each other

I promise to tidy up before company arrives, wouldn't want my socks and daydreams all over the carpet

There was no secret I did not tell him, there was no moment we did not share. We didn't grow up, we grew in; like ivy wrapping, molding each other into perfect yins and yangs

We both know how to hide our sharpest parts, I just don’t always recognize my own weaponry.

You can only fit so many words into a postcard. Only so many in a phone call. Only so many into space, before you forget that words are sometimes used for things other than filling emptiness.

There are so many things I would tell you if I thought that you would listen and so many more you would tell me if you believed I would understand

She makes tea by hand. Nettles, slippery elm, turmeric, cinnamon - my mother is a recipe for warm throats and belly laughs. Once she fell off a ladder when I was three. She says all she was worried about was my face as I watched her fall.

And I know we live in different worlds, and we're always really busy, but in my dreams you spin around me so fast, I always wake up dizzy. So maybe one day you'll grow tired of the road and roll on back to me.

Practice does not make perfect. Practice makes permanent. Repeat the same mistakes over and over, and you don't get any closer to Carnegie Hall.

Fingers interlocked like a beautiful accordion of flesh or a zipper of prayer

If loving you means getting dirty, bring on the grime.

We were dandelion seeds released to the wind, she asked for no return. We are saplings now. With gentle hands.

When I meet you, in that moment, I am no longer a part of your future. I start quickly becoming part of your past. But in that instant, I get to share a part of your present. And you get to share a part of mine. And that is the greatest present of all.

Whenever I hurt myself, my mother says it is the universe’s way of telling me to slow down. She also tells me to put some coconut oil on it. It doesn’t matter what it is. She often hides stones underneath my pillow when I come home for the weekend. The stones are a formula for sweet dreams and clarity. I dig them out from the streets, she tells me what each one is for. My throat hurts, so she grinds black pepper into a spoonful of honey, makes me eat the entire thing. My mother knows how to tie knots like a ship captain, but doesn’t know how I got that sailor mouth. She falls asleep in front of the TV only until I turn it off, shouts, I was watching that! The sourdough she bakes on Friday is older than I am. She sneaks it back and forth across the country when she flies by putting the starter in small containers next to a bag of carrots. They think it’s ranch dressing, she giggles. She makes tea by hand. Nettles, slippery elm, turmeric, cinnamon- my mother is a recipe for warm throats and belly laughs. Once she fell off of a ladder when I was three. She says all she was worried about was my face as I watched her fall.

Our model ships look perfect in their bottles, but we do not know if they are seaworthy. Sometimes the one that reaches your harbor has already been through the storm.

I didn't tell him that even after a crash, a key still fits the ignition. There just isn't anything left to drive.

Getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.

It does not matter how long we have been kept in cages. It does not matter how strong your gravity is. We were always meant to fly.

I will wake you up early even though I know you like to stay through the credits. I will leave pennies in your pockets, postage stamps of superheroes in between the pages of your books, sugar packets on your kitchen counter. I will Hansel and Gretel you home. I talk through movies. Even ones I have never seen before. I will love you with too many commas, but never any asterisks. There will be more sweat than you are used to. More skin. More words than are necessary. My hair in the shower drain, my smell on your sweaters, bobby pins all over the window sills. I make the best sandwiches you've ever tasted. You'll be in charge of napkins. I can't do a pull-up. But I'm great at excuses. I count broken umbrellas after every thunderstorm, and I fall asleep repeating the words thank you. I will wake you up early with my heavy heartbeat. You will say, Can't we just sleep in, and I will say, No, trust me. You don't want to miss a thing.

Her dress is the colour of marmalade, she chirps songs that have no words

...I was not born with enough fuel. My anger often melts into sadness, it will just disintegrate into shame or fear, my clenched teeth release into chatter. But you have found the right mix of arrogance and alcohol. Place your hands on me one more time, then again, exhale the cigarette into my eyes, tell me again how I’m just not understanding the point, remind me how you are an expert, touch my knee, my thigh, my lower back, ignore me twice, three times, continue talking over me with the man to my right. There is a beast in my veins that was birthed by my father. It is quiet, it sleeps through most nights. Tonight, sir, my tail twitches in the darkest caves. Be careful, darling. Your footsteps land heavy here. Your racket will wake the dragons.

I am watching parts of me evaporate like sidewalk water. This wet grey, this nighttime dew, gone before morning.

We build model ships in bottles, whispering life into the toothpicks and wire; we make plans and blueprints for the one we hope is coming. And come they do. Fleets of vessels. Battleships and barges. They arrive on the horizon, flags to the sky.