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Between the Cracks

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Photo credit: janeheller.com

Photo credit: janeheller.com

We peeled

corn on the cob

on the back

steps, like we

used to do

when I was

a little girl.

My mom held

open the plastic

bag, and I

stripped the corn’s

casing off.

Ants are

staking out

around our

matching black

flip-flops.

They are acting

like dogs,

praying that

we drop some

corn silk for them

to scarf up.

A baby hoists

a piece of corn silk

on his back,

and walks between

the cracks

back to his hill.

But, instead of

him saying,

“It’s mine!

It’s mine!

It’s mine!”

There is an

unspoken,

It’s ours.

Without waiting

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Extra cream, five splenda,

almost looking like

letters swirling.

It’s as though the coffee

is a type of alphabet soup.

He stirs and watches

the color turn blonde

and solid.

 

The edge of the cup

rises to his lips

and he slips the heat

past his tongue.

Somehow

he still tastes it.

 

The routine is always

brew, mix, drink,

without waiting

for the steam

to find a new place

to live.

 

He puts the cup down,

happy with knowing

he can control

when it is ready

for him to drink.

 

A moon is a moon

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Photo credit: en.wikipedia.org

Photo credit: en.wikipedia.org

Moons crashing

into each other,

creating other

moons.

Moons orbiting

other moons,

orbiting planets,

surrounding us.

Think about

moons and what

classifies a moon

as a moon,

and how is it

different than

a planet.

It appears

that a moon

is a moon if a

certain group of

people say it is.

Just like a poem

is a poem if you

say it is,

only it does not

matter who says it.

Someone just

has to feel it

and whisper

in the dark.

Stiff and restless

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Photo credit: commons.wikimedia.org

Photo credit: commons.wikimedia.org

Your eyes

are squinted,

far away, and

glazed over

from the medication

and the anesthesia.

You try to run

up the stairs,

and you fumble.

I dive

for you–

I would always

dive for you.

You’re quiet,

stiff and restless.

You don’t know

where you

want to be

or

what you want

to do,

but I lay with you

on the wooden

living room floor.

We wait together

as you breathe heavy

out your swollen,

open mouth.

It almost sounds

like you’re purring,

but you are just

unsure.

The difference

in you

will pass by

morning,

but until then

I hold you

as you look

past my eyes.

Tides

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Photo credit: www.tides.info

Photo credit: http://www.tides.info

Your arms are

my waves,

wrapped around

my waist, tightly

pressed.

But it’s not

like a pulse or

a crashing

sensation of

heartbeats

connecting.

It’s more like

that feeling

of knowing

when the tide is

coming in

and you’re

anticipating that

numb feeling

against your ankles

and how it climbs up

your knees

and then

your thighs

and makes you

think about

going just a little bit

further

and deeper

into the oceans of

something that

end up warming

the core of you.

Suddenly everything

is brighter,

and you feel as

though you can look

directly into the sun.

But instead,

there are your

eyes,

and then

that feeling washes

over me

one more time.

Ready to burst

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Air thick with bug spray,

sunburned shoulders

carrying brightly

colored chairs,

the backs of flip-flops

being stepped on

by drunk 20-year-olds

behind us–

we are almost

there.

 

I imagine the

fireworks

being pressed

down

like a spring

in a box,

ready to burst.

The field is only

a few people

away now.

 

Conversations are

getting caught

in my hair

and I feel the breath

of people’s plans

and lists of toiletries

they need

to pack

for vacation.

 

I hear a woman

say something

obscure,

and I nearly stop

in the middle

of the crowd,

but keep walking.

I repeat to myself

what I must have

misheard,

and I cannot

let it go.

A radio flyer

full of sunsets.

A radio flyer

full

of sunsets.

A radio

flyer

full

of

sunsets.

Hollow inside

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My guitar left

un-played in the

dusty, awkward

corner of my room.

It fills a space

between my TV

and a cabinet,

just the right

size with its

body sticking out

only a little,

and the legs of its

stand almost

glued to the floor.

It’s been so long

since the neck

has been touched.

The hollow inside

used to fill up

with sound,

but now there

are only echoes

of when I tried

so hard to

learn.

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