Open

I study the way water caresses the shore, the gentle pulse and pull. No thought, just free movement.

The crash of chaos turned soft, like wrapping yourself in a white cotton sheet fresh from the line, cooled by strong summer winds. Fueled by dragonfly wings.

I watch the maps the water creates, a cartographer leaving tales of currents and fresh rain. An old sea.

Open to the sheer beauty, the truth of time and the look in my ancestors’ eyes, how they visit me in dreams. How easily I overlook such meaning. Lost.

It’s become easier to close myself, to bury in earth and walls than to wind toward the sun, trusting growth.

Open like tears that flow down my face each time I hear Moonlight Sonata. The way Beethoven or a forest floor, a waterfall, holding my son’s hand, a bed of ferns just feels like home to me.That kind of beauty, inherent and vulnerable, young yet a lifetime, a library of memories.

A trail of fear lies behind, boxes and parts of me strewn across the country. I return each time, to this shore looking across state borders, always looking west, mountains lining the horizon. Lost in sunsets.

I want to feel the stillness, the calm within the storm. Forget about before or after. Stop trying to determine my own future. Just flow. Water washing over my toes. This simple silent beauty. A quiet connection to it all.

A Love Letter to Self

A love letter to myself. A parting gift, an offering. A bleeding heart tied in string, beating delicately. The removal of such vital parts, an open cleansing.

I float this anatomical heart like a velvet kite, wrinkled and worn. Let go like I did as a child. Push it toward the sun.

Third grade, a secret note scribbled with a message to no one, tied to a red balloon, return address complete. I imagined it would soar across seas, that some stranger in a foreign country would see it land softly at their feet, or save it, tangled in a tree. A simple red balloon with the power to soar in jetstreams, through fog in and around constellations. Waiting, just waiting to be noticed, to be read, to softly give in, allowing gravity to choose its destiny. 

I cast my heart, bleeding over fields, strawberry rain. Empty me. Mi corazon, washing ashore on some foreign beach. Children poking it with sticks, sealing it in a mason jar, tucked in a bed of moss. It rests far outside of me. I give it away without fear, without return. I feel the beat, a phantom organ pumping memory through me.

Pieces

I see myself in cracked paint, slipping off the sides of Victorian buildings, revealing layers of time.

The tired petals of poppies and peonies bow to me
Technicolor fallen queens

I live with the solitary crow high in the branches
Feathers sleek
Black silk shrouded in mystery.

Sun erupting through clouds like an eye on fire
Watching me

I float with impressionist clouds
painted lightly
soft blue, scalloped cotton tips

Reverse sunsets
Melted ice cream
The cool taste of iced coffee on my lips

I walk within the smiles of rowdy neighborhood boys on bikes
Stick swords
Warrior calls bellowing

I rest in my son’s eyes,
full of wonder
Brushed by long thick lashes,
the space where the light bends through bamboo blinds

I touch the door, old and worn,
tattered screen
Slamming shut at the corner store.
The sound of
high heels clicking on the sidewalk below.

Damp grass, bare feet
I hear the crickets talk to me

Open
Closed
The electric hum from neon signs
From street lights

All senses come alive
An orchestra of chaos
Fragments of observations
Mirrored mosaic pieces of me

Slow Dive

The lost map that lies buried in my belly like a sunken ship. Parchment paper of scribbled dreams, slightly worn at the edges. Written in blood pricked from my index finger, written in a language I no longer speak. I long to stretch my limbs and hands and eyes, open them to sky and earth. An empty vessel pouring over and over again. I am wrapped up tight like a message in a bottle waiting to be read, to wash ashore scraped by pebbles, soft like sea glass. I ebb and flow with tide, wax and wane with moon. I used to own dreams, conjured out of creativity, wrapped in hope. Now they own me and I am lost among strangers faces, dark alleys, ghosts and animals trying to feed me memory. To wake me, pull my thoughts like string. Go deeper, they tell me. Fall into the abyss, the blackened estuary where the broken parts of me mix. Into the sand and reeds. Dig down. Hands like shovels, feet settle like stone. Wait. Slow dive. Dream soft now behind a thick tattooed skin of stories and armored bones.