A brief descriptive poem

I will not forget the short peck of your lips

Inching closer as they whispered over mine.

You skin’s slick scent

Prickling slowly over me.

Or the river in your eyes

Brimming with hidden obsession
And so misty- foggy as the ocean

Green Sandbox (Anaphoric list poem)

Beneath the green sandbox

An ecosystem creeps

Full of peaceful beetles

And worms that herd in sweeps

The slugs they smiled at me

Their ugly faces shining

Antennas bouncing with sly searching 

for each other in the blinding light

Dark beetles clicked their tiny feet

Creeping through the weeds

Their shells are covered in dark sheen

Their underbellies weak

I lied on my belly

As the insects scurried on

Their little island quite intriguing

For things of such small size.

Shards of Memory

Around 2010- I’m staring at my phone in the middle of class, trying not to cry. Elaine is seated next to me, trying to get my attention and starting to look concerned. I couldn’t hear her; I couldn’t hear any of the chatter around us. My mom sent me a text, told me she got remarried.

         
            Around 2012- I'm sitting in Gunnar's bench seated truck, the heat of summer thick and sticky
            on my skin. I scoot another inch closer. He's still oblivious. It takes him twenty minutes to             kiss me, and when he does he's giggling the whole time. 

Around 2004- I can hear my grandma crying in the room above me. Gasping like her lungs were poked with holes. She misses home.

Around 2013- I bounce my baby boy on my lap as we sit in the church of my Iowan hometown. The priest is rambling on about my papa like he actually knew him. I’m filled with an irrational urge to cover my son’s ears.

Around 1998- My mom tells my dad she’s pregnant on father’s day, with a card. It’s a surprise and I’m young, but I can still remember the smile on his face. Later that day my grandma asked me what we should call my new sibling. I told her poophead sounded good.

Around 2015- My grandma tells me it upset my papa that I moved back to Iowa to live with Gunnar. Tells me it’s time for us to get married, now.

Around 2002- Bright red blood leaks slowly down my leg and all I can do is yell. My brother is standing next to me, a knife he stole from the kitchen gripped tightly in his hand and a wild expression in his eyes. My mom finds us in the hall and patches me up, trying not to laugh at my over reaction.

Around 1997- Papa taught me how to ride a bike. I helped him fix the front porch. He let me fall asleep in his lap. I let him take me out to breakfast.

Around 2007- I’m shut up in my room, listening to my dad’s fist hit a wall, hard. I cringe and pull my knees up under my chin. He’s yelling, talking on his phone to someone. My brother pokes my shoulder, asks me what’s going on. Mom’s gone.

Around 2014- I’m sitting in a hotel room with my mom, her husband, their new child, my new child, and Gunnar. It crosses my mind that I’m twenty years older than my sister.

Around 2012- I’m pregnant. Too pregnant, really. My five foot two stature is having trouble lugging around over fifty extra pounds of weight; I’m sweaty, uncomfortable, and I'm tired. But Gunnar is kneeling in front of me, holding out my great grandma’s ring, and I smile.  

Dock

He called me, fire dancing just behind his words.

A brimming desperation,

That echoed through me.

How could I say no?

We met at the muddy side of a dock,

The waters beneath it shimmering quietly.

Night filled it with muted colors,

But was unable to quell the noise of creaking boards under our feet.

Wild gestures painted smoke,

Slowly spiraling from the tip of a grape flavored cigar.

My eyes transfixed at the gap of rough, thick fingers.

Wide and strong and kind.

And then my world tilted,

With the cracked wood of the dock,

And then straightened again-

Pulled forward, stuttering, and crashing to a halt.

He called me, fire dancing just behind his words.

A brimming desperation,

That echoed through me.

How could I say no?

Name Poem

A pale face,

Visiting an unknown dimension where nobody can recall

An exceptionally proud mother who

Relaxes in holey sweatpants and a tattered, grey sweater

Intensely munching watermelon with

Eyes of dull green, like a pine in dark winter.

Grappling for a far-out, under-used concept

Red becomes cheeks, hot or cold-

Overly dramatic, to a fault- and

Vertically, not reaching high, but

Every photograph, endless rows of movies, an angel and my grandmothers’ jewelry are vastly important because

Sometimes life moves too fast, I must learn to slow it down and relax.