April:Well, when I get ahold of his supplier …
George:When you get hold of his supplier, give me a call.
He finishes his tuna casserole
winks at Gavin
walks out.
Gavin:People who do drugs are lame.
Me:People who deal ’em are lamer.
April:Is “lamer” a word?
The usual suspects all leave.
Then it’s just me,
my Chex Mix,
and my thoughts
of April and Ralph.
Dating Down
Meet a guy
butterflies
then come lies
systemized
feeling low
can’t let go
loss of spark
deep in dark
wonder how
this fell down
Once was great?
Break-up fate!
lesser highs
louder cries
greater price
major vice
loser guys
make life
a
sadder life.
Relationships, Pt. I—The Good
Gavin and George aren’t afraid
to hold hands after class.
They share hats
and split chocolate bars.
They study together
and text all day long.
Gavin boasts about George’s singing voice
George brags about Gavin’s knack for math.
They smile a lot, flirt a ton,
and joke with each other constantly.
Gavin never seems out of sorts
when George is around.
Love.
Relationships, Pt. II—The Bad
April’s mad about Ralph.
She follows him down the hall after class
bakes him brownies when it’s his birthday
and sugar cookies when it’s not.
She’s sweet on him.
Ralph gives her a smile
gives her a hug
gives off no indication that he’s as crazy about her
as she is about him.
Just enough interest
to reel her in.
I like your hair like that.
You been working out?
April’s caught on his line.
She studies him instead of Chemistry
leaves him love notes
and donuts for breakfast.
Ralph runs off with his friends,
promises to call.
She waits for a ring when we’re
at the mall
at a show
getting manicures
making dinner
listening to music
on the bus
out and about
settled in
Longing.
Relationships, Pt. III—The Lonely
My mom used to tell me stories
love stories
stories of her youth
her courtship
how she and Dad ran around
two peas in a pod
a daring duo
paramours
birds of a feather
lovebirds
fanning the flames
falling in love
forever and ever linked
together.
How she told it:
eyes sparkling
smiles emerging
memories bubbling
up from a place
deep within her heart.
Will I find this?
Can I have this
with X?
Back in My Bedroom after School
Me,
my canvas,
and thoughts of X’s
russet-brown eyes
mahogany lips.
Will he call me before Saturday?
It’s only Wednesday.
Does he miss me?
Do I miss him?
Did he ask for my number?
Maybe he’ll
go online, look me up.
Maybe I’ll
go online, look him up.
Round and round I go
red paint hits my canvas
lines begin bold,
feather off.
It feels good,
The playlist on my computer
s h u ff l e s
swift sounds
LOUD, bright! colorful sounds.
You, dear red,
start and stop my head
What’s he doing?
What’s he thinking?
Is he thinking of me?
Not thinking of me?
Do you know, sweet blue?
He’s not thinking of me!
Is it true?
Oh, brown,
turn my thoughts around
He’s thinking of me. It must be!
But, if it’s not true—
I’m back to blue
Am I on his mind at all?
And if so,
will he call?
Oh, pink,
I can’t help but think
he will call.
But where will he be?
what will he wear?
what will he say?
Oh stop me, green,
from wondering
what he’s doing
right now. Is he
walking
talking
eating
breathing
sleeping
or …
Round and round with
blue
brown
pink
green
red.
Colors, crisp in my head
my therapy
I, the painter
live the paint
b r e a t h e the artist’s
life.
Dad
Lost in brushstrokes,
I jump when Dad lowers the “noise”
coming from my laptop.
He sits on the edge of my bed
watching mestudying mejudging me
the usual.
Dad:Your art finals?
The don’t you want to be more than a painter?
sound in his voice.
I nod and
continue painting.
Silence sits.
I could count on one hand the
number of times
he has said he’s proud of me and still
have enough fingers left
to hold a cup of coffee.
I run a stiff stroke of cyan across the canvas.
It rests there like a lie waiting for truth.
Dad:Finished your homework?
I nod and
continue painting.
Dad:Don’t you have a chemistry test this week?
Stroke stroke.
Stroke stroke.
Dad:Have you studied for that? Chemistry’s essential
for your SATs.
Stroke stroke.
Stroke stroke.
He leans back on the bed, gets
comfortable enough to take on a lecture.
Dad:Your mother and I …
She’s not my mother.
Dad: … saving for your tuition …
Dad: … sacrifice …
Dad: … don’t want to muck that up, do we?
Me:I studied, Dad.
Dad:That’s my girl.
Pause.
Only time he’s in my life
is to lecture me. Not like it used to be
with Mom.
The time before
cancer
funerals
elections
Queen Vanilla—
just us.
Blending the cyan with peach, I paint something pretty
something sweet
like the hands of a father
held out
holding his daughter.
Dad:Who was that boy who walked you home yesterday?
Me:Someone I met studying.
Dad:Seemed a little old for you, don’t you think?
The politician’s tone taints my portrait.
Stroke stroke.
Stroke stroke.
Never argue with a debater.
Stroke stroke.
Stroke stroke.
Me:Don’t worry … head’s screwed on … it’s okay …
His contorted expression relaxes a bit.
A bit.
His phone beeps.
The usual check-in from Miguel.
Suddenly he’s distracted,
engaged in Miguel’s message.
Dad:Well, keep your nose to the grindstone.
Fingernailsacrosschalkboard.
He rephrases.
Dad:Just remember, the primary’s coming up.
Daddy’s Girl Goes
Up in smoke
smashed small and
smothered smelling his pipe
his weathered hands his
worn watch and waiting eyes.
DADDY’S GIRL GOES
To the river
writhing wretched and
ready to catch a trout yank the line
pull out applause see his eyes
approving.
DADDY’S GIRL GOES
On his lap
taps his leg leaning
lanky and lurking up against
his chest keeping emotions close to
the vest.
DADDY’S GIRL GOES
Down to the ground
grown girl to glad woman where
whatever he says nothing
sounds safe so …
DADDY’S GIRL IS GONE.
The Girl
I paint flesh tones of a girl
asking something with her eyes
while her legs carry her away.
I stare at the girl
staring back at me.
What’s on her mind?
What does she want?
What does she need?
I don’t know.
I just paint.
I hear the cries of another girl
barreling into my room
while hugging her hippo.
Melanie stares at me
as she sways like a swing.
What’s on her mind?
What does she want?
What does she need?
She wraps her slobbery fingers around my thigh,
points at my painting
nosy as ever.
Me:It’s a girl.
I want to say me, but
I see her look
longing
lustful for the me
to be her.
Me:It’s you.
Melanie smiles
sucks her fingers
buries her head in my leg
happy to be her.
Is learning to lie, part of
learning to love?
Sisters Seem
Sisters seem
the same
grown in the same
garden
under the same roof
watered and blooming
out of the same ground.
Sisters share
DNA
weeded out of the same
silt
tangled in the same family roots
both reaching up to the sky
to blossom in the sun
from different
sides
of the tilled
soil
iris and crocus
pollinated and cut
from the same cloth
fragrantfragileflora
only
not
the same
flower.
Coffee in Paradise
Indie coffee shops are like people,
no two are alike.
I meet X in a hot, new, halfway hidden
alcove.
Droopy trees
heavy with flora and leaves
hang over garden chairs.
Essence of java teases the air like forbidden fruit.
X, consumed in conversation,
pulls his hands out of his pockets
puts something in a stranger’s hand
who hurries away.
My stomach flip-flops as I approach,
a testament to my excitement, I decide.
I say hello, wearing my
I’m trying really hard not to seem high school look.
Particularly tough to pull off after
filling out forms and finishing finals
then losing my way.
I couldn’t find this café,
until right before my eyes it appeared
from nowhere
like an apple in Eden.
X wears his usual flushed cheeks,
tousled hair.
He shoves bills in his wallet as
I slide into the booth
plop my bag
tuck my hair
fold my hands like a prayer.
I’m right where I want to be
today.
Flavors
X orders a tasting menu of coffees.
We sip …
SWEET:
X:Most girls like sugar.
Me:Maybe I’m not so sweet.
X smiles.
BITTER:
X:You’re cute.
Not hot or sexy.
Cute.
Are college girls sexy
and high school girls just cute?
BOLD:
He points to a note pinned to my bag.
It says,
Feed Alex and send me that link for the shoes.
Me:That’s from my friend Gavin.
I sip slowly.
X:Does Gavin always pin nonsensical notes to your bag?
Me:He thinks it’s ironic to be my mom.
I swallow.
Me:He’s my best friend, actually. He likes shoes.
And he’s gay.
X:Who is Alex?
Me:My ivy. I forget to water him.
Carefully, I remove the Vote Henderson! sticker
slapped on the opposite side,
hide it in my pocket.
MILD:
He stretches arms across the wobbly table.
Fingers touching the back of my hand.
Grinning. Glancing.
That damn grin. Subtly, it melts me.
I take a sip of one—sweet, silky, smooth.
And another—earthy, citrus, bright.
So many flavors.
So many flavors I never knew …
Returning to Paris
Across from X
I envision the future,
sipping French Roast along the Seine.
Could we?
Visiting Versailles on his Vespa.
I’d paint in a pretty loft,
prize-worthy paintings
sold outside the Louvre.
Fluent in French.
Living joie de vivre.
Artists
photographers
bands
and X.
It’s a great feeling—
living
sipping
floating
pretending
dreaming.
Dutch
We finish our fourth cup,
so jittery I can barely stand up
liquid insanity coursing through me
caffeine jitters
first-date nerves.
I tap my fingers on the table,
X’s hand covers mine
replaces the tapping with an electric current
that shoots through my body.
One simple touch.
He suggests we go to Leo’s for lunch
then reaches for his wallet.
The waiter flies to our table
quicker than a politician’s promise.
I insist we go Dutch.
X:I can pay, you know.
He looks perturbed.
Does he think I think he can’t pay?
Did I say the wrong thing?
I close my wallet
thinking of Gavin
and give up the Dutch.
Walking to Leo’s
X’s stride is long.
His lean limbs
lanky, look like weeping willows.
He plucks a geranium from a planter.
X:For you.
I close my eyes,
inhale.
A distinct, lemony-rose scent
rushes from my nose
to my heart
to my brain—
Mom’s perfume.
The one she used to put on
before she went out,
before—
I compose myself as he flicks his hair.
X:Like morning sun, it wafts. Desire. In the air.
The smell of me. After touching you.
I breathe in the ecstasy of love true.
A lyric. From one of the guys he lives with.
This is quite possibly
a moment out of a movie,
not one I’m living.
He offers
a feeling
a thought
a random lyric
a flower.
Can it always feel this good?
With Ted, love was
help with homework
Slurpees from 7-eleven
a lukewarm letter jacket.
I sniff the geranium as we pass a tire shop.
Guys covered in grease watch.