Be still a moment, while I attempt to explain this

It won’t come out right,
But I am trying to tell you.
So bear with my arm, my eyes, my lips,
For I know no other way than this.

I.
When you sleep – those rare moments,
For it seems you never dream,
It is vulnerable, so silent,
Like snow blanketing the shards
Of your splintered wine glass.

II.
I had parents once.
They shared a room in a house someplace
I was too small to remember.
When I became a man,
The room, the house, disappeared in a sunrise.

III.
The brush of your fingers,
The way it makes my skin stand up, erect,
Makes me write poems again.
And when you are not here,
I cry alone in salty anger.

IV.
When they look at you
And I feel them reading me,
I touch your hand to make it real
And remember Sara, her brown hair
Waving back at me in the wind.

V.
It is only in that moment
Before we meet together for rest,
That I want to push
And show you the length
Between the cherries and their blossoms.

VI.
It is not your fault
I cannot remain numb.
They make drugs I cannot take for that.
But you feel like summertime
And here, snow falls for six more weeks.

VII.
I must not say this in words,
But at night, when it feels blackly dense,
And I can see my own hair on your cheek,
I dream of ways to show you
Cherries, snow, blossoms, and summertime.

Even Dogs Give Apologies

If I could take it all back,
Trust me
I would.
But you know how a dog loves
A cat?
Just curls up alongside him
To stay warm,
But cannot express the need?

It’s okay if you want to explain
Your mistakes.
Fill in all the punch holes
After wind blows through them.
But you must say it
To yourself first.
Accept,

Like that bus ride after the fans went home.
Moon falling over gray seats,
Just you and the bounce in the cold.
No one is ever really at fault,
When a team plays.

Fireflies at dusk, if you ever held one,
Stop burning yellow if you clench.
The light goes out with the sun
While the rest still fly. Your parents still call.

But you cannot be a firefly.
Your life is dog curled ‘round a cat.
Dreaming of running, chasing, even biting,
With tufts of fur in teeth,
But instead rolls over,
Stretches.

A Break in the Action...

After it all shook down that afternoon in the cafeteria, she was in the hospital.
Unconscious.
Someplace between a deep slumber and life.

It went on like this for some days.
She lost track of time, space, whatever else was going on in the immediate world.

The only sounds in the room were the quiet drips of an IV bag and hum of a small monitor, its winding octopus legs attached to her by sticky circles.
Once in awhile, people came in and out.
There was talking.
But she heard nothing. Saw nothing.
Rather, nothing registered about her relationship to earth.

But while she was away, her mind kept moving forward, simply creating pictures while she slept...

She had been in such desperate need of sleep.

Post-traumatic Stress

You don't know this yet

But sometimes when it it's really dark in here,

(and honestly the midnight blackness is beautiful most times)

It becomes imperative to open the eyes.

Adjust.

Seek out what really hides underneath the bed, you know?

I mean, they say there really aren't monsters under there, but you just don't know sometimes.

I saw one once.

It was around for only a few minutes, but damnit it bit me.

Left one hell of a mark.

Call it my battle scar if you will, but honestly, had I had a real weapon, I'd have shot it right then and there.

But it got away.

They're fast suckers. Slipped out the door into the winter 4 AM

and just freaking disappeared.

By the time I'd grabbed the rifle and my shot, it was long gone.

So you see, when it's really cold outside, and a bit insanely black in the room,

I get a little angsty, a little pre-war inside.

It was only ever that damn monster's fault and I really don't know where it is.

But we still gotta check under the bed before going to sleep.

Okay?

You just never know, because it's dark.

And it's so cold outside, because it's January.

Now that I think of it, it was January then too.

What do they look like? Monsters?

I have trouble remembering it sometimes.

Bigger than us, but not by much.

Not a lot of hair really, but more scaly, slippery, like a fish with claws.

Someplace between crab and octopus.

You really can't pin one before being bitten.

You gotta just tear off after 'em when it's over.

Or that's what they all say.

I haven't seen one since that morning.

I don't think I'd even know what color to look for.

All I know is that the monster that bit me is missing part of a tentacle.

I mean, hell, I bite too.

Doesn't everyone have teeth?
Somewhere?

I just gotta tell you this.

It seems simple, monsters under the bed.

I won't bring it up again so long as we just check.

Maybe keep something sharp beneath us.

Just in case.

Because you just never know.

The Thing Is...

The thing is, in this town, no one really wants to get to know anyone else too closely. There is danger in that, knowing someone, you know? I mean, something turns in on itself when secrets are uncovered and you begin to understand where another person comes from.

It's a bit on the scary side, really.
People become all that more human, more fleshy and stupid.
And more prone to make mistakes.

Is that the terrifying part?
The mistakes?

Or is it the understanding, the inherent knowledge that we all do it -
All belong to this community of perpetual falling down and getting back up.

Yes, it's in the spiraling up and down that the fear comes, its unique blend of warmth and coolness that keeps people going, you know.
Yet it is also the fear that brings everything to a hault.

And in this town, we don't discuss it much - this fear.
But none of us wants to die too soon and none of us wants to live without that one thing we all keep hearing so much about.

Right?

It was on a day when the wind felt like a knife. She felt wounded, vulnerable, especially when the icy fingers got through the weak spots in her coat. She always loved winter's beauty, but not its feel. It made everything feel dead inside. It heightened the numbness, the thickness, that had been growing so dense over time.

But on this day, upon opening her mail, a bit of warmth trickled in where it hadn't existed before - an anonymous postcard.

You are wonderful.
Just wanted to remind you of that.

No name. No postage to offer a hint.
Nothing but a card and a business envelope.

And despite the ice and snow on the mail center stoop, she sat down in her business clothes and cried.

Lunatic Lunch Hour

Her morning in the greenhouse was a quiet one. James refused to speak to her about much of anything. His few comments were somewhat bitter, irritable, and always pointed to ways in which she was pruning incorrectly or performing a "completely unnecessary task," like making sure each leaf got a bit of moisture.







"You don't have to soak down each leaf!" he had bellowed.







But she liked the way the leaves and petals glistened when she made sure each one got a dab of fresh water. She felt a bit sheepish when the morning ended, realizing the mental patient had served as her boss, her greenhouse 'master,' all morning long. It made her want to stamp a foot and retort "How dare you!?" but she remained quiet.







By noon, she was famished and unsure of where to go next so she returned to the main office.







"What do we do about lunch?" she inquired at the front desk.

"How the hell should I know?" barked the receptionist as she gathered her materials, "I'm out to lunch too."

So she returned to Dr. Heathrow's office, knocking timidly on the door.

"Come in!"

She entered the foggy office a second time, finding Dr. Heathrow at her desk, feet up, and reading a book, a half-eaten salad next to her.

"May I go someplace to eat?" she asked.

"The cafeteria is down Hall C, just pass the in-patient screening rooms. Help yourself to what's available. Your next assignment, Andrew, begins at 1 pm."

Dr. Heathrow was absorbed in her book, so she retreated silently and headed to lunch.

She felt utterly ridiculous, chastised by a mental patient and then brushed off by the staff. She was half ready to call it a day when she saw a door marked "Cafetorium" and she went in.

It was everything she'd imagined and then some - putrid wall paint, styrofoam serving plates, plastic sporks, and staffers in hairnets slopping up lukewarm, undistinguishable edibles. She got in line, made a small salad (because she knew where veggies come from), picked up a bottle of water, and sat down at a small table near the window.

She peered around the room, which was nearly empty save a few staffers near the door, a few policemen and security officers walking through the room, and two tables, a patient at each one.

One patient was thumbing mashed potatoes into his mouth, apparently not allowed to use utensils. The other was nodding to herself, muttering under her breath, her lunch uneaten.

She turned back to her salad and munched cautiously. It wasn't bad, but it sure wasn't good either. As she ate, she felt her phone vibrate. She looked at the incoming message, which was from Noodle.

"Dinner. Don't forget. You like red or white wine? Talk soon."

She smiled. Maybe the next four hours would speed by and she could end her day in the company of someone more sane, more fun to be around. She messaged back:
"Red. Cabernet or Merlot. 8 pm okay?"

It was then that her mind drifted again. Was this a starting over or merely a continuation? She wasn't sure.

Minutes later, a terrifying scream broke her from her reverie.