I saw a man today, dressed for fall

Maybe this outfit the sportcoat had said something different in his day

It was a gray suit with length on the arms, the legs 

He was wearing sporty sunglasses pressed down on his nose revealing his age

The sagging of skin around his eyes 

The one thing he gave me was the greasy eye, you know the one 

That says he is open to trouble but if questioned would cackle as if you were the crazy one 

I wedged his dark face in close to mine 

Cheek to cheekbone

I threw my motherly arms around his shoulders, I held tight.

We were hunched over walking forward through the parking lot like soldiers. He had lost both matches. 

“You could be a great wrestler or a bad wrestler, win or lose, and we would still like you.” I said.

“I know that,” he said.

But, I could feel his smile on my palm. 

I would never tell anyone, nor would I want to compare my pain with that if somebody who had had a true loss

But sometimes, every month feels like a miscarriage. 

As I was cutting the onions the knife slivered across my finger nail 

I hadn’t noticed until later 

after we had already eaten the soup that half of my fingernail was somewhere in there

Every time that she says goodbye now, even when she is just leaving the salon for the day, it feels like she is saying goodbye. Not see you soon. I always grieve ahead of time in hopes it will dull the pain when the day actually comes. I always try and press it in now so I do not have to think of it later. Then. 

The last time we went running together, we walked the whole way. It was a Monday and the leaves had been pushed down by the snow; They were less crinkly. We had breakfast just like other mondays. But it was goodbye. I knew that. My friend. 10 years of raising or arms to mKe people beautiful. Now I was all alone. For 6 years at least, the military would take her. So goodbye is the appropriate word, despite texting and calling and visiting home. Work will not be the same. I know it. 

The birds know, better than we do 

How to sing 

To nest, to winter 

We, with our man made wings are always trying to be something we are not 

(g)od, if we could be, 

with our towers to heaven, 

Our face paint 

Our laughter when we are dying inside 

(It always looks like your life is wonderful)

I do not have a face that can lie anymore and sometimes it is the death of the day, the sourness 

But it took me years to learn how to cry and forgive 

It took me years to find joy in turning over the soil,

Or the way the light presses his chest up against the windowsill

 but I had to say no to many things to get here 

I always wondered why old people were always talking about birds 

Why a bluebird made my grandpa light up

(I hope he is covered in them now)

Now I understand 

There are many griefs on this earth

We can focus on them

The winters of life

Or we can find birds. 

Do I want to see the world.

Yes. 

The way the vine hangs like a fractured spine on the cliffs in Krabi. 

The cliffs the color of henna. 

The hands that lift their hands to God like tree branches do. 

Do I want to see the world. 

Yes. 

Do I want to paint. 

Yes. 

I’d give them up though, if I could stay home and trade that for you. 

broken

to be heartbroken is a normal thing for a human.

There is a crowd of us, crazy with love and loud music and dancing with crippled hands and disjointed spines. They are the beautiful ones.


(Avery.)
I spoon feed him, his eyes watching every transaction between the bowl and the spoon

If I have even one piece of cabbage falling off the edge of it, he waits till I correct it, knowing that if I don't it is bound to find a place on his shirt. This is the respect he has for himself. He takes his time with the chewing. I cannot shovel it in like the workers  must with their hands so full of so many children to feed. I try to look at him with every bite. I try to learn what he wants and needs because he may only get this week of that.

 I learn, though he cannot speak, that the spoon needs to be very full or he will not take it into his mouth. Looking down at the piece of rice I irresponsibly let fall off the spoon, and then up at me,  he waits.

I collect it. Add it to the orange bowl. He smiles.

He is talking to me with his eyes, so round with warmth and bursting with water. He waters me, as I feed him. I am a student.

This week, is a gift for both him and I.  I water him, like I would my plant, and he smiles like I wish my plants would. There is nothing like this.

And so, I am heartbroken because him, and I cannot describe the growing inside of me after the last two months.

(I have never been more excited to be broken.)

There are days 

that I feel as if I can barely raise my hand up

And others that I am so easily pleased 

Even the fact that I finally have a battery in my key to unlock my doors makes me 

—grateful

I am human enough 

More human than I once knew 

I listen to the geese wailing 

Through the screen door 

I pray, God? Why do you make hydrangeas? 

And how did you come up with a voice for the goose? (Did he practice the sound first? This makes me laugh to even imagine) 

I think it shows off how very happy God must be. 

Everything that someone makes shows off part of the makers personality. 

I think Pico de Gallo is a happy thing for a person to make, what with all its color and cutting. God makes people specifically to make Pico de Gallo, I know it. 

This makes me like God very much. 

When I look at the bumble bee, hear the hum

Look straight into a Tulips eyes 

Rest my leg on the ripple of the wave 

Watch the light skim the lines on my palm

I see that God must be having a very good time 

And must like it when we smile.