SMACK.

And just like that, I clattered to the floor, my insides spilling out in embarrassing fashion across the cold linoleum. I rolled a bit, teetering back and forth, then fell still.

“What in bloody hell?” I heard a man’s voice grumble. I spotted a wrinkled, jittery hand, reaching down for me, inching closer, closer, closer…

SMACK. A flash of perfectly manicured bright pink fingernails flitted across my field of vision, swatting away the wrinkled hand and swooping my white plastic body up in a single jerky motion.

“Poison, Dad,” said the young woman who was now clutching me with a death grip. She slammed me down on the table between them. “You want another damn heart attack?”

“Grain of salt, sweetheart,” said the white-haired man, his voice playful.

She sighed and shook her head. “This isn’t a joke.”

“Honey.” He reached toward her with his bear paw.

“No,” she said firmly, pulling her fingers away and raising them to her left temple. “I can’t have this conversation again. My head hurts.”

“Eat something,” the man said, gently sliding a bowl of plain oatmeal toward her and accidentally knocking me over with his bulging knuckles.

Lying there on my side, I saw her face. It looked ragged, older than its 20-something years with dark circles around brown eyes, betraying chaos inside.

“Nah, my stomach’s been off,” she said, her face suddenly looking paler. I watched her dark ponytail swish as she turned around and squinted at a clock on the diner's far wall.

“Almost 8:30. Gotta go teach,” she said, jumping up and grabbing a rolled-up yoga mat from under the table.

“Lindsay, doll,” said the man, concern growing in his voice as he beckoned to the dimly lit parking lot. “It’s 8:30 p.m. P.M.”

“Wait, but…” the woman said, trailing off. A nod. “Yes, of course. I taught this morning.”

“You did,” said the man. “Here, take some,” he said, pushing a half-eaten $3.99 diet plate of egg whites and cantaloupe toward her. She sat down slowly, her eyes welling with tears.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me lately,” she said. She didn’t move when her father took her hand this time.

“It’ll be fine,” he said, reaching over to stand me upright and slide me towards her.

That’s when she looked straight at me. And instantly, I knew. Her headache. Nausea. Confusion. It wasn’t something I’d seen much in my days here at the Big Rig Diner in Tallahassee, but there it was written all over her face, plain as day.

Salt deficiency.

She’d been decrying me as poison for years, worrying about her father, perpetually afraid genetics would take her too down the road of diabetes and heart failure.

She didn’t want to die. She didn’t want him to die. And so she had cast me out—to dangerous extremes—imagining that removing me from her life would ward off the inevitable. Now she was wasting away with alarming alacrity.

She stared at me curiously, a realization dawning, then coming into focus: moderation.

“Grain of salt?” her father asked again, pushing me toward her. She smiled weakly.

Shake, shake, shake.

You happen upon a strange pocket watch. You pick it up, dust it off, and tap it a couple times. It’s ticking normally. You pull the crown and everything around you freezes. You press it back into place and normalcy returns. Amazed, you wind it forward, then backward, and impossibly, the world speeds up, then rewinds. Time is now yours to control.

But it isn't.

not really.

Because time doesn't have rules.

It doesn't make sense.

It doesn't follow patterns.

It doesn't tell you what it means.

Time likes to change its mind.

And sometimes forward means back

and back means forward.

And sometimes start is stop, and stop is start

and the world begins to fall apart

because you were there

but also here

and once this happened, but it changed

you changed

time changed

but time doesn't change

it doesn't follow rules

so it happened and it didn't happened

all at the same time

and time didn't understand

and it didn't like being meddled with.

It didn't want to stop and move,

rewind and move forward,

start, and stop,

up and down, back and forth,

across the timeline of the world

and eventually time grew angry enough

was changed one too many times

by your hand on that strange pocketwatch

and time acts

it fizzles and pops

it goes back to that day

where you first dusted it off

and time changed

and you never picked up a pocketwatch

never dusted it off

never moved back and forth

never stopped

never started

and time went on.

Tick...Tick... Tick.

Constant.

Unchanged.

On and on and on...

Tick... Tick... Tick.

A small, retro microphone rises out of a deserted plain in front of a veiled figure flanked by a suitable number of dragons. The figure lifts gauntlet-obscured hands to the hood and throws it back to reveal that the figure is none other than George R. R. Martin. He smiles one of those little half smiles of his and chuckles. He’s wearing that beret he likes so much. Clearing his throat and pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, George begins, “And now, for a look back at those we’ve lost.”

Another hooded figure strolls up next to George with a large, leather-bound tome, and, with every name spoken by George, the figure turns to a page with a beautifully-drawn image of said character who had passed away tragically at some point in the series. Then, when the names had all been read, the hooded figure and George would lock arms and sing, “My Way”--made popular by Frank Sinatra. I smell an Emmy.

for Jasper

Oh, you

magnificent creature,

fierce predator,

fiercer napper.

you who have seen

far less seasons than me

but are still older,

I salute you.

The Egyptions were right all along;

you truly are a wonder

in every way you differ from

your massive ancestors:

how you are delicate

yet fearsome.

If there is a heaven,

it’s made just for cats

since you are our rightful rulers.

Instead of golden streets,

there are rows and rows of cardboard boxes

and soft blankets

and warm milk

and seas full of tuna.

And there,

you,

beautiful, wise, and spiritual cat,

are stretched out

and napping.

You, who can bathe

without a bath,

who can ask a question

without making a sound,

Where you are,

everyone is king

in his own right.

If I could tell you one thing,

I’d tell you thanks

for being here

even when you weren’t

thank you for staying

and never running away,

thank you for listening

and for talking,

thank you for not complaining

when I pulled you closer.

May there be many streams

in your cat-heaven,

may there be blankets

and many friends for you to meet.

Years never meant much to you,

but may there be infinitely more to come,

and sunlight.

warm patches of it.

just for you.

Pikes Peak, her favorite mountain, stands tall, out to impress, commanding through the window, brightened with the shining sun, there for her, one final day.

Pikes Peak, enshrouded by clouds, presence unknown, a marked absence, snow falls, the day is dark, “funeral weather” her friend Betty says.

It’s been a year and a day

Since her daughter, that bright

Spot in her life, her everything, has

Left her, leaving a dark hole, and a deep

Pit where love, hope, and warmth 

Once resided. She knows her

Daughter didn’t leave her

By choice and that every-

One dies, but it still

Hurts so much, 

She cries a lot

At night.

The rain came last night,

Leaving puddles on the asphalt,

Shimmering in their glory like a thousand

Puddles of molten silver, rippling and lapping over 

The edges of their confines, and she wonders 

If her daughter’s soul wasn’t like that,

Wanting to get out but never being

Freed from its prison until now,

And as she looks at the water,

She thinks of how her 

Daughter liked to 

Jump in them,

But now she is gone,

Her life is but the passing

Ripple on the surface of a silver

Puddle that remains unchanged by all

Her daughter as done. It hurts to

Think this, but she knows it is

True in the general sense, but

That even after the ripples 

Fade, her daughter’s

Legacy lives on.

Fear me, for I have cried,

a thousand tears beaneth your feet.

The same tears you will mop

tomorow.

Fear me, for I have screamed,

a thousand years into the night.

The same screams you will hear

in sorrow.

Teach me to stop dragging my skin

roughly across the past, so it may tear

like paper, because it is so thin.

Teach me a door may be opened without

a key, whether it be locked or not.

Ask me how I got this far in a single step,

taken again

and again

and again.

As a woman, I am ever so grateful

Feminists before me, their hearts so full

Perplexed as to why women weren't treated as humans

Fought for us, to stand beside the man

I fight for and with feminists and approve of their message

Because I simply depend on it

And if I ever have a daughter, I'd want her to grow up being a feminist too.

i. 9am at the airport

I remember a year ago

When you went to France

And I wanted to tell you something but I didn't

Because I was afraid it would ruin your trip.

I told you a month later

And I still probaby ruined your day.

You remember it every time you see me.

You remember it, and how it hurt you

And now you pull your hand away

Every time I get too close.

It hurts me, too,

But it felt unfair not to tell you.

And we don't ever talk about it.

ii. 4pm on the plane to Philly

It's silent and all I can hear is European sirens

and how their backwards ring has become familiar somehow;

I wonder how long it'll take to forget them completely.

It's amazing to think that I've experienced so much

And now I'm just going to go back.

Back, and everything will be the same but different.

I'll still get nervous while ordering food,

But for different reasons.

Goodbye, Paris.

Goodbye, Eiffel tower and Notre Dame Cathedral,

Opera house, metro, Louvre,

Goodbye, statues

And goodbye to all the poems I lost

whilst walking through your streets:

words I remembered for a time

but was too tired to write.

Goodbye, 4pm.

Nights and days will be different now.

Hello, stress

I can't say I miss you

(you never really left.)

Hello, violin

I miss the sound of your voice,

I only hope my hands remember how to hold you-

Hello, friends, family

I haven't begun to miss you until now

but I'll tell you I missed you the whole time.

Hello, Love.

I haven't forgotten you,

not completely:

only

your face,

your eyes,

your

laugh.

You've always been drawn to the broken,

Junkyard trash salvaged and transformed,

Dismantled and reassembled into perfection.

Maybe that's why you chose me,

Collecting my fractured pieces in jars

And storing them away for reassembly.

But I am no puzzle.

My pieces will never fit again flawlessly.

Jagged edges exposed and cracked surfaces

Leave you searching for the girl beneath the wreckage

As if the girl standing before you needs perfecting.

Can you not find the beauty in the damage?

Can you not see the strength in the stitches that bridge the cracks?

You're waving fragments like white flags,

Jars opened for operation,

But I never asked for reassembly.

I only wanted to know if you could love the scars.

#poetry #scars