I believe I am naïve

I am carrying my heart in a white
plastic thank you bag.
I collect pollen to attract the dying
bees and shells so the sea
might return. I am learning to wait.

I double knot my shoes against
the possibility
someone might
ask how I am.

I shape my mouth like something
forgotten, a wind or a prayer dragging
close to the ground, it is dirt that stirs,
but not my breathing.

What I want seeps through the fabric
of my skin. I hope there is room
in the thrift store for my need. I wish I
was ready for you.

Now that you have sold me on what’s
okay for the night to take.




.

I am not anxious to see
the insides of the coming year.
But here it is. It is an old sunrise,
the same sun exploding again and again.
The light is tired. My hands are tired.
It doesn’t matter how little I want.

The rose bush moans
in the wind, are its thorns enough
to break the tension of the window.
Snow hides in the southern shade.
Most of the time I remember
to breathe. To pull until my lungs crack.
There is evidence of decay.

I still play with knives. Flipping
them into the air hoping for an even rotation.
I offer you the handle, throw it at me,
I am soft.