will she

She wonders if she’s even
capable of being loved,
having
thought she loved, but not been
loved in return, which she thought was
part of the deal,
along with being loved the
way she wants to be
loved, which is exactly what everyone wants, of course –
to be loved the way you want to
be loved, with that one crystal addendum:
by
the
one
you want loving you.
So, she cries, sometimes, more, other times,
because
they don’t ever seem to and she
wonders if it’s her, though she knows,
really, that it isn’t, that she just
hasn’t
found
him who will make her
feel
the
way
she wants to feel, and she thinks this,
when it’s quiet and dark and the wind
rustles the leaves on the elm outside her window on
brittle, autumn nights:
will
she
ever?
the little voice inside her says,
yes,
but she doesn’t
believe
it.
always, as well she
shouldn't.

what is

A face, a smile
a toss of the head,
but from afar,
where
everyone’s safely
ensconced,
or at least just
ensconced, for what counts
as
“safe,” is subject
to debate.
Too little is not enough,
too much
is dangerous. Slivers
of moments can set off fragments of hope, which is not
always
a good thing, though some would
say
otherwise.
Years ago, now, he wrote:
"remember what was, not
what
wasn’t," and
he reminds himself of that, often enough
to qualify as mantra.
So, he remembers
what
was, and
stops
there.
Mostly.

i ... bird

If I were a bird, I would want to be a pelican. Strong-winged. High-flier. Acrobatic. Fearless. Over water, where the smooth air currents flow. I would write my autobiography, but keep it short. I’d call it “The Pelican: Brief.” Or maybe I’d be an eagle.

she-cret

“Everyone has a secret,” he said. “There’s something dark about everyone.” “What’s mine?” she asked. He laughed. “That would be too easy,” he said, “especially if I guessed correctly. “ “What if I lied?” she asked. “If someone guesses correctly, it’s impossible to lie.” “You know that for a fact?” she asked. “I do,” he said. “What’s your secret?” she asked. He just smiled.

mortal sin

She hooks up at last call. His name is Phil. That’s all she knows. That’s all she wants to know. They go to her place. She feels safer, there, even though he doesn’t seem the type who would slit her throat, though tomorrow, Rachel, her friend, her best friend, will tell her she was crazy. They do the requisite tango, then dance for real. After, she tells him to go, just like that. He seems confused, for he’s younger. “Can I see you, again,” he asks, and she just says, “No.” She cries when he’s gone, then drinks herself to sleep. When she wakes in the morning, still in her clothes, she remembers few details, only that she sinned, as she meant to. When she leaves for work, the doorman greets her as always: “G’morning, Mrs. G.” She doesn’t hear him, or at least acts as though she didn’t. Or couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.

peli-can

outlined
against a blue September sky.
flapflapflapflap
(looking)(looking)(looking)
flapflapflapflap
(scanning)(scanning)(scanning)
flapglideflapflapglideg…l…i…d…e
turn … turn
dive
45
wings out
90
wings v’ed
wings in
twist
splash.
dinner!

the edge

What washes ashore come from
places away – does it know where it
lands?
Ships on the horizon.
Two.
What do they do?

So far from the “heartland.” What, then, is
this? Just the “edge?”
& why so less,
especially given its beauty?

People come here to walk;
some, too, to talk; others to sit and
watch from the edge.
Just
wondering.

Some take off their shoes.
Some wade in all
dressed.
All come to the edge
and
look out.