Poetry

Don’t Pick Up

Poetry 
When you call someone 
And they don't pick up,
Aren't there just two reactions?

Relief or frustration. 

Some people I am just calling
Because I think that is what I'm supposed to do.
And if they don't pick up, it's like a win
Because they can at least see that I tried - 
I tried to connect with you, but you didn't pick up. 

So it's not my fault.

And I don't have to have a phone conversation, 
Which can be exhausting and alienating. 

So I'm relieved. 

But some people I call
Because I've been thinking about them for days. 
I've been thinking about what they would say 
In this moment.

I've been thinking about what they wouldn't say, too. 

I'm calling you because I've been trying to be your voice
But I am not your voice. 
I've been trying to not need you. 

So I call you.
And on the third or fourth ring, I imagine you
Glancing down at your phone
And hitting the button that makes your phone stop ringing
Without making it seem like you ignored my call. 

Hi you've reached Danny, I can't take your call right now—

I thought we were going to talk. I think about the conversation we would have had.
I think about all the people I haven't picked up for.

Tired

Poetry 
Last night I had a dream
Where I was in the Olympics,
Repping the U.S. 
In breath holding.

I was in a pool with an attendant
Who would accompany me under water.

First round - the warm up. 

The attendant attaches
A small weight 
To my waist 
And I sink about three feet
Underwater.

I am holding my breath.
In my dream
I am holding my breath.

The panicked pressure starts to build 
Like a lead balloon inflating 
In my chest.
All I can think about is 
Taking a breath.

I tap the attendant 
And he cuts the weight
And we swim to the pool surface.
And I take an indulgent breath.

Second round - I know
I have to hold it longer.

I take big, heaving breaths 
I feel the attendant 
Fasten a larger weight
Around my waist.

3 - 2 - 1
A loud beep and for a split second
I see the bottom of the pool open up
To reveal a deeper level.

The attendant and I sink 
Now about nine feet underwater.

I am holding my breath 
And staring at the twinkling, blurry blue
Around me.
Willing myself not to think 
About oxygen. 

I tell myself breathing is an option
And so is pain.

It is not required. 

Until it is.

I tap the attendant
After what feels like a crushing eternity
And we swim to the surface.

I am already a little disappointed
I didn’t hold it for longer.
And I am tired.
So tired.

I wake up this morning
And drudge through my day 
Tired. 

So tired.

The Antidote

Poetry 
Why am I so hard on you?
Because I am hard on me.
And me doesn’t like to hear it from me,
Doesn’t like to believe it could be me.
So me puts it on you. 

I put it on you
Like a dark cloak
Made of mud and gum 
And melting molasses.

“Why is she like that? 
Why can’t she just stand up for herself?
Why is she so insecure?
She’s just doing it for attention.
She’s pathetic.
I hate that she’s like that.”

I hate that I am like that.

But I am trying to be 
More impeccable with my word.
Inflict no harm with my thoughts and speech.
Communicate with the intention of love.

Murder the fear 
That has wallpapered my mind 
For too long. 

Because when I think those thoughts about you
I am poisoning us both. 
Love, forgiveness, and empathy 
Are the antidote.

Dissolved

Poetry 
When I try to put my mind around you
It’s like dropping a sugar cube 
Into water.

I just want to taste your point of view.

I want your sweetness to stain my perspective.

But it’s totally not fair 
To use you like that. 
Because what do you get out of it?

Dissolved? 

Still, cube after cube 
In they go. 
Until it’s not sugar dissolved in water.
It’s sugar absorbing water. 

It’s not even water. It’s just you.

Trash Day

Poetry

You are my Wednesday.

You are the metal clang,

And the slams that echo in the alley

At six in the fucking morning.

You are the sour, dour odor

That sighs over the neighborhood.

You are all the things I don’t need

All the carrot stems and fish skins,

And salted tissues.

You are on your way out

But you will be back in a week

To take more things from me

That I decided I don’t need.

It’s not what you say

Poetry 
It's not what you say,
It's what you don't.

What are we doing here?
Was that another year?

I'm sorry I can't decide.
I'm sorry I need your time.

I'm just afraid of making that leap.
I'm just, afraid. 

I know that you would be relieved
If I told you that I believed

In people's ability to change
And gracefully rearrange

All of the habits we have grown
In false secrets we don't own.

But I don't think I believe.
I cannot give you that reprieve.

Not yet - at least... My dear,
My soul feels full, this year. 

And I am trying to see it
To feel it and to breathe it.

To want what I've got
And not pine after what's not

Mine or not going to be
Mine for eternity.

Okay, I think that's enough
My now, my comfort, my love.

The night I met you

Poetry 
Midge and I had taken some mushrooms.

She was preoccupied with a jar of peanut butter 
And I was moving on the grassy dance floor,
Sneaking sips of vodka-Redbull from behind the DJ booth.

I knew the DJ. I think he liked me
In a cute, early 2000s movie kind of way.

At the office, he would show me music, 
Tell me how surprised he was to find out I smoked cigarettes.
And we would blush wildly
At the red-hot silence that squatted in between warm, flighty conversations.

I still get a little nervous thinking about it.

You came up to me and asked if I wanted to dance.
It felt like just us—
Except for moments when I caught the DJ's eyes
He watched us dance, moving closer and closer.

The night I met you, I had already given away a few pieces of my heart
Slowly and carefully, wrapped in light pink tissue paper
Tinged with cigarette burns.

But you came in and took it,
Unwrapped it,
And started to give pieces back to me.
Tori gates in Kyoto

My grandpa told me…

Poetry 
Sweet. Woody. Smokey. Lint.
That is how he always smelled. 
Each visit ended with a hug
That got looser and bonier
Until it got tight and shaky,
Clinging to small moments
As time pulled at the hems of his khakis.

My grandpa told me 
He had dreams about touring the universe
In a plastic lawn chair.
He’d grip the sun-beaten armrests
As the chair maneuvered through planets
And soared through the star-spotted abyss.

My grandpa told me
Two men came to his family’s small home
And told them they had 30 minutes to pack 
Everything they wanted to bring to the camps
Because they were Japanese
And they were dangerous.

My grandpa told me
You should always eat buckwheat noodles
Because they’re good for your heart.

My grandpa told me 
After he stated his name
The farm owner said, “That’s too hard. I’m just gonna call you Dickey.”

My grandpa told me
To “go on” and join the dancing women 
At the Obon Festival 
Who moved in undulating circles 
In white silk kimonos 
Embroidered with red flowers.

My grandpa told me
He found his younger sister
Lying half-drowned, face-down in a drainage ditch
On the edge of the farm in Arkansas.

My grandpa told me 
To wait. 
As I stood on a small beach on Lake Hodges 
With a plastic, neon purple fishing rod
And learned to love fishing
For the waiting. 

My grandpa told me, 
“You don’t let anyone push you around, okay? 
Be tough.
Okay?”
And clutched me to his disappearing frame.

I said “Okay.”
Not knowing that bent reflections of his past
Had allowed him to see the future.

I have to believe you’re here

Poetry, Uncategorized 
Today
We put strings of butterflies
On your bench.

It just so happened 
That a single monarch 
Crossed the trail 
And lingered for a bit
As we made our way down the sandy path.

I wish I had talked to you more.

I wish I had known you better.

You were always kind of like
A half-mom,
A taken-for-granted,
Taken-for-normal
Presence in my life.
Like the sunshine 
Or the leaves.

Things have been tough since you left.
Daughter. Husband. Adopted son. 
Fragmented by the absence.

I have to believe you are here
Holding them all
In arms made of gardenias
And wind.

I have to believe you are here.

Is it karma? Is there a lesson?

I have watched people wither away
Over losing someone who was not half the person
You are. 

I have to believe you are here.

Road trip

Poetry

I study your face

Closely and carefully

Like a fox in the snow

Noiselessly watching the hare

As it grazes and gasps with

Every small noise.

Peering from behind

A slick granite rock.

Amber eyes catch a shard of sunlight

In the cornea

And scream in brief squeezing silence

Against the radiance of the golden hour,

Which only arrives

When it wants

It never leaves;

But rather dissipates.

Until the night

Has breathed her sultry, misty embrace

Onto the navy landscape

With sighing grays and shy greens

Flashing by in the window

As we fly down the Sierras at 60 mph.

Fog thick as cream cheese forgotten

In the back of the fridge,

You watch the road

Biting your cheeks.

Forbidding others to pass.

Somewhere else.

Watching unresolved business

Remain unresolved.