where we hide

Standing in a darkened school library, surrounded by books no one reads and shelves that I optimistically think might give some protection, I try shushing the teenagers into silence. A futile attempt at a chore made harder by the daily news reports of guns in schools, but not *our* school, their adolescent fearlessness fed by media snippets of regular mass casualties in far off communities, but not *our* community. They and I are numb to the thoughts and prayers echoed by millions on television sets until it bleeds together into static without pause, a white noise machine every few weeks. A stinging balm to smooth over the heartache. Numbness sat in years ago, building with each news cycle.

I finally give up and give into the knowledge that today I might die. This early Fall day when it's hot and cold outside at the same time. I wish I would have taken the day off. The fear I have for myself fading into nothing as I compare it to innocent kids stuffed into corners of rooms, hiding mice with no escape, corralled sheep in holding pens climbing over one another to get away from the dogs snapping at their heels.

Standing in darkness in a makeshift school library that unfortunately has four doors to the hallway. Four access points for rage and sadness connected to a hand on a trigger. Four holes in a defenseless fortress made of hollow drywall and yellowed paper. One eye kept to the screen of my phone the other jerking back every time an armored police man runs across the strip of light pooling through a door window, his automatic rifle cutting a thin strip of black away from his body. My heart is launched right behind my gag reflex every time I hear their footsteps.

Shushing foolish teenagers who only start to quiet down when images via our 6.1 inch lifelines appear. Snaps and tweets and Stories of police parading the perimeter of our school, a deadly and desperate ant hill overturned. Images of the cafeteria below my feet slide across their screens. Guns drawn and quiet children sitting at tables or staring with eyes upturned to these officers that should never be here in the first place. Go away I say to myself, just disappear already, go away and we can pretend this isn't happening.

I hope my other students are safe. I hope I don't hear the pops of bullets leaving chambers. I hope that we escape alive. I hope the kids stop giggling for a goddamn second so I can protect the ones who are as scared as me. Protect is an illusion but I cling to it like an anchor. A mission, a focus, an intention. It's laughable in the aftermath. I hope I can trip the shooter if he opens the door. I hope I can be there in time to throw a book at his head or push him over or tackle him or grip the gun out of his hand or somehow save the lives I have stowed away in the most terrible of hiding spots. Pigs at slaughter. That's what we are.

There is no place to hide from these imaginary or real bullets, these gut wrenching daydreams, these easily accessible weapons of hatred and pain. I stand in the dark library awaiting news of release, whether that is an unlocked door with a key or a bullet to the head I'm not sure.

we march onward

I didn’t hate the way she repeated herself; I hated what it represented: senility, onset of mortality, the knowledge that she was, like the rest of the human race, on a slow path towards death and wouldn’t always be there for me.

no thank you

don’t control me

with your generosity-

one favor, two

just so you-

can have peace of mind

if i find the the time

to say thank you, godbless-

gifts with strings attached

i can never match-

the expected response

you desire, you want-

nothing you give is true

you did it all for you-

i am not

a spigot-

dispensing validation

for your own flotation.

#gemini

my zodiac sign has

nothing to do with your

bad behavior and

lack of relationship skills-

your cowardice in facing

your past

has led to you dead ends

of failure and fury-

instead of connecting to other people

you stay stuck in a cycle

of victimization and insecurity-

one day you’ll open your

inner eye and see

the lies you told yourself and me

**

can we start over?

this time with asterisks next to our names-

our flawed souls with footnotes

marked at the bottom of the page-

notes outlining the ins and outs

of our deepest fear and dreams. 

if I could see myself through your eyes, 

and you could see yourself through mine,

those footnotes wouldn’t be flaws at all-

they’d be beautiful descriptions of

humans who hold the world at their fingertips.

2019

volcanic rocks and snowy boots, weedsmoke whispering in the cold.

big boned puppy peeing in my car

but still bringing the biggest smile to my face.

creepy landlords and hippy roommates

moving and changing back into the old.

settlers of catan, friends laughter

around dinner tables and coffee tables.

kisses goodbye and late night arrivals

at airports and bus stations.

muddy paws, stained pillows, and chewed up books.

weeks of silence, uncertainty, tears.

final sleepovers, power outages and

happy hour drinks before heading to the laundromat.

packing, boxing, taping, donating, trashing

reunions, birthday greetings and sendoffs.

miles and miles and miles and miles in the car,

lush forests, bland landscapes, yellow fields of flowers.

limping back home, suntanned, and filth

coating every surface of body and possessions.

cleaning up, organizing, finding love again.

trippy nights, sweet mornings, plans made.

insecurities rising, hearts falling, tears streaming.

love lost, future shattered, scabs forming,

self confidence blossoming.

nights growing longer, holiday lights glowing

hoping and dreaming of a new year.

these kids

these kids under pressure of multiple choice tests the alcoholic parents at home the lines in school with no talking allowed the lunches too small to cover the sound of growling bellies the clammy hands when the principal makes a visit the names whispered back and forth cutting to the bone the inconsistent discipline bouncing from home and school and back again the shortened recesses and the increased structure the classrooms too full the heroes too few these kids under pressure exist in their tight cages with limited possibilities limited chances limited self-worth these kids under pressure

west texas

West Texas at dawn smells clean. Grit hasn’t flown into the air yet, kicked up by white oil field trucks and the loads they carry. Moisture from the slim blades of buffalo grass hasn’t evaporated into sunny skies. The aroma from mesquite and sage hasn’t had a chance to dry up, instead, the pre-morning world is bathed in its mingled arms. The dirt finally rises as countless men finish their coffee in dirty kitchens and head off to the offices and rigs that have risen up on the landscape like red mites after rain. There is little quietness anymore. The diameter of the cities have expanded to house the oil-businesses and the people that chased the jobs here. 18-Wheelers steadily stream by, lumbering and heavy, with the attitudes of golden retrievers. Getting their job done, hardworking. Pick-up trucks with all types of apparatuses and toolboxes decorating their beds, plow quickly around everyone else, anxious to get to their job sites. At mid-afternoon, the blue, blue sky rests against a flat horizon. Humans, miniature figurines, move lazily across it. The enormity of the land, the flatness in every direction, renders the largest of us small.  

sinkhole

When I was eight, I had free roam of the hills and canyons that surrounded my house. In our town of 300 people, there really wasn’t anything a kid could do except scramble through rocks and throw spears made of sotol, build forts, and heedlessly cross railroad tracks unsupervised. I went out exploring with my brothers constantly. They fought; I tattled, they played; I imitated. Sometimes a friend would join me instead. The rural landscape was unforgiving but we didn’t know any better. We were unaware of any danger the world could hold and too bold to ever think something would happen to us. We were powerful. We were invincible. We were innocent. 

Before my best friend, Katrina, moved back to her native Alaska, I was allowed to spend the night at her house. I don’t remember much about the sleepover except that I didn’t like the dinner her mom cooked and that her step-dad didn’t seem to get up from the chair in front of the television set.

I do remember one thing clearly though. After eating breakfast the next morning, my friend and I wanted to go exploring on their property. Without warning her step-dad told us, from his armchair, on no uncertain terms, to stay away from the edge of the sinkhole. Sinkhole?! My curiosity immediately perked up despite being a fairly obedient child who was known to punish herself for minor transgressions. With the trailer house’s door swinging shut behind us, we decided we would maybe, possibly, look at the sinkhole. Give it a casual glance and go on our way. 

But what entices an eight year old to do something they’re not supposed to do? Tell them to not do it. Of course we meandered our way to that sinkhole. We reasoned to ourselves with child-like logic: it isn’t like we were actually going to go to the edge, we were only going to look at it. Maybe throw a couple rocks into it. That’s not what I did though.

I can clearly recall this huge hole in the limestone bedrock. From a distance, a person wouldn’t even see the sinkhole. It was unexpected. It looked as if someone had melted the ground away but missed the middle. There was a sort of rock “bridge” that spanned the middle of the pit. A circle divided in two. I don’t remember having the courage to walk the center line. Instead I sat down and scooted along on my bottom.

This is the oldest memory I have of doing something completely exhilarating. This is the oldest memory I have a choosing to put myself in a dangerous situation. Yes, there was that creek crossing a couple years earlier when I almost got swept away in the current. And yes, there was that time that my horse was spooked by a train and my boot slipped through the stirrup. But those things had happened to me. I didn’t have a choice. This is the oldest memory I have of me making a decision to do something not only disobedient, but perilous. Cutting off my Barbie’s hair was no comparison.

Sitting there, I could see the pebbles and broken off rocks that cascaded down the sides of the sinkhole. I could see the black pit at the bottom. I could see why my friend’s step-dad had told us not to go here. 

As quickly as I had climbed my way to danger’s edge, I retreated. It was my first brush with the realization that I was doing something treacherous, deadly even, and while liberating, the sensation was too new, too strong for my brain to comprehend. The innocent belief that I was unconquerable dissipated into the Texas air. 

I looked at Katrina, we nervously giggled, and ran back to the house. No one told on us, no one saw us. Our own fear chased us home. 

storage

Over and over last Friday

I traced your words

with my fingertips,

rearranging them

to spell new sentences.

In your language

maybe Love and Sorry

are direct translations.

But I can’t find the answer key.

Today I filed them away

into cardboard boxes of Memory.

My hands flipped through

color coded manila folders.

Dog-eared, fresh, dusty, new.

Finally I paused at one,

You.

The label, a loopy red

question mark against

the dark hues.

la ciudad

a paper advertising hot sex

tumbling on the street end over end.

trains smelling of bodies and fresh pan.

store owners restlessly tapping their glass counters,

heat building until the clouds burst apart,

summer in my city

won’t last long but feels like forever.