Blizzards and Batting Practice by SeaPlume, literature
Literature
Blizzards and Batting Practice
In retrospect, we should have checked the weather. In my father's defense, it had never snowed this early in North Carolina before. My sister's twelfth birthday was November 19. The party was two days later because we figured a Saturday would be better than trying to hold the celebration after school. The weather that week had been a bit chilly, by southern standards at least, but nothing to stop us from celebrating, even if the party was outdoors. Our family never threw big extravagant events, but everyone always had fun, and "fun" usually meant baseball, especially when Lizzie was involved.
My dad grew up on baseball, a Braves fan through
My girlfriend writes to me from way up north,
on an island of pine trees
where sunsets meet the silhouettes of mountain chains like a painting
every night and humpbacks cry over the calm water.
I ask her how she's doing and all she says
is It's gorgeous,
like I can't tell, from the thousands of postcards and calendars
and inspirational posters plastered with those same sunsets
she sees each night.
I know what beauty is supposed to be.
But I can't help wondering, when she asks how I am, how is New York,
will she understand when I say the city
spread out below me, lights shining in a rainbow against shadows
of muted glass and steel
is jus
To the girl teaching herself to fly,
a hospital bird with soot in her lungs
and patchwork wings,
Starling,
you only fly for a little while.
If you want to stop hurting,
learn to drift in the silence of the dark
between night and day.
We're all made from broken parts:
bird seed, letters addressed to no one,
things found in old coats,
brittle things like love.
Glass bottomed birds,
we used to make butterfly hands,
until moths swarmed into our throats,
moon-spun moths,
like dancing butterflies; still
we choked on dusty wings.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs,
the same smoke that you'll inhale.
Let go, little bird -
I ruined myself for relationships,
found the perfect partner only to let you go.
(Love makes you do stupid things,
sometimes.)
Yet I will not give up so soon,
young and passionate, I seem
unable to resist
falling again.
Try as I might, I cannot bring myself
to say we were not close to perfect. So, I wonder
what's the frequency of perfection
in my life?
Surely love is not a one-time hap,
the teenage romance that made
a certain actor more than just
another bard.
If you should show up dead,
I'm afraid I won't be killing myself,
but then,
you were always Mercutio anyway.
The
Statement of My Affections (several weeks late) by SeaPlume, literature
Literature
Statement of My Affections (several weeks late)
Dear former housemate and sweetheart (also former),
First off, I wanted to say I'm sorry,
sorry I never said goodbye,
sorry I kept you waiting for six days
to pick up your things
(as if that minor frustration might make you call the whole thing off),
sorry I still have that photo (you remember the one),
sandwiched between the fourth and fifth acts of Love's Labour's Lost,
waiting to be mailed, even though it makes no sense
to send it to you now.
I'm sorry I didn't fight harder, and I'm sorry you couldn't let me go.
I'm sorry I couldn't let you go.
I won't say I'm sorry it didn't work out, this new… endeavor of yours.
I'm also not
I don't know if I'll ever tell my children about you.
(I don't know if I'll even have descendants.)
A family was never on my to-do list,
until you came along.
You made me wonder if I wanted kids, just so I could say to them
"You know, the day your dad and I met…"
because I thought we could last forever,
and I'm still not sure if we have.
Our friendship endures, even as I fall asleep
picturing her arms around you,
and I wonder if you'll ever come back to me
but spend every day noticing the reasons I'm glad you left
and hoping you'll return.
Never intending to fall in
We meet before breakfast every morning
just to get my quota out of the way.
She drinks steaming coffee without scalding her tongue,
while I blink the sleep from my eyes, sipping slowly.
Her scent hangs heavy in the air with the perfume
of sunbeams and birdsong
and the success of a thousand hopeless dreams, and
I don't know the colors
of the dress she wears, but I'm told
it's beautiful
by the butterflies.
Our conversations are staid and brilliant
simultaneously
and can only be recalled
through forgetfulness.
Her favorite activity
is herding cats,
but perhaps next week
it will be milking rattlesnakes;
Hers is the realm beyond paradox,