[Strawberry juice and bent knees]

Strawberry juice and bent knees
fling me to manic highs:

hot veins on warm hands, shoulder blades
pulsing like running pavement.

Jolt across the fabric of thieves,
a belt thick across my hip bones.

Shaken and sprinkled with glass;
wrist, skull, chest. 

August 17 2013

Petals like eyelids, like shells, like dresses,
like scoops that hold dear every tear that it gathers.
In fragrant handfuls she waits for bits of soup:
my heart soup that's dripping through
my crevices that I try to squeeze tight.

Vines like fingers, like rivers, like ribbons,
like incomplete reaching toward the farthest gasp of air.
At my core, behind my ribs, he's grabbing at guts;
keep going, keep going,
so those toes can always wander.

How I fall in love.

     Times I've fallen in love:  2.

     The first time was procrastinated, avoided, and denied.  He was my best friend and we were separated by exactly 100 miles. 
     My childhood best friend lived in the house right next to mine, where we would easily send messages to each other by paper plane and spend every hour of the day together.  Few understand the inevitability of taking those who are only inches away from us for granted. 
     The distance of 100 miles grew us together.  Phone calls tethered us with consistency and thoughtful discussion.
          Average phone calls per month:  23. 
     One of his favorite lines was:  "Saying, 'nothing' is just a cop-out.  C'mon tell me."  He had a way of making you want to tell him what was on your mind. 
     We grew together.  Ideas and beliefs strengthened, intertwined. 
     After months and months and months and months, I relented.  Complete romantic vulnerability.
     Instantly pushed away. 

     The second time was inevitable, tearful, and lost.  He was my outline and we were made out of the same kind of stuff. 
     I would always wonder what it would be like to meet myself.  Would I like her?  Could we be friends?  My verdict was no.  Imagination conjured predictability, battles over influence, and subtle habits clashing.  Since my firm conclusion, I put in no further thought of the subject. 
     Days together confirmed our congruency, including height and shape, restaurant choices, birth order, and a 13 year old brother named Joshua. 
     However, our similarities extended beyond the physical coincidences.  Two hearts brandished little pits that were covered to hide the shame and sadness.  Readily recognizing the sight, we took out little shovels to climb in those tunnels, unbury the secrets.
          Number of my secrets:  8; number of his:  8.
     We tangled ourselves together, passionately, hazardously, like electrical cords with worn plastic coverings and wires poking out like needles.  There was nothing like it and I thought I'd never let go. 
     Then one day he cut a little too deep.
     So I ran.

Blackberries

You and I are filled with purple

     spilling over fingers with juicy stains.

Frame us in porcelain bowls and

     the warm, folded crease of a t-shirt.

We tangle through the deep, wet soil,

     clinging to riversides and forest edges.

Venture into the wild with me,

     stretch out your limbs; come and see

The forgotten trails that house us,

     keep us through the first blush of Spring,

Harvest's sweet pangs and lingering cold.

     Rest your head against the curve of my shoulder

As we linger on, spreading our roots wider still,

     like fingers interlacing; you and I. 

Thinking of you

Big windows in the kitchen
     remind me of you,
Like soft words
     caressing my ears with kisses.
Rustling leaves on barefoot walks
     reminds me of you,
Like fingers in my hair,
     tangled and clumsy.
Shooting stars smudged by street lights
     remind me of you,
Like dewy grass pressed in crisscrosses
     against my legs.
Goosebumps raised on my arms
     reminds me of you,
Like warm, fuzzy blankets hiding
     your cheek against my knee.

Be Mine

     During the years of elementary school, Valentine's Day was a day of class parties and exchanging little cards with candy attached to them.  Sometimes there were kids who would only pass out Valentine cards without the candy.  These were quickly sorted out into a pile marked as "rejected" when an eight-year-old would dump out his or her box to analyze this year's spoils.  However, there were a few candy-less Valentines that were accepted; these were those that had funny quotes or popular characters like Batman and Scooby-Doo.  In another pile, stacks of candy were labeled as "consume". 
     Now "consume" could mean immediately or over the course of several months.  In my younger brother's case, this large stack of candy could last until Halloween, carefully portioned so that cavities could be avoided and when the occasional sugar craving came across this consciousness, he would be prepared.  On the other hand, my sisters and I ate our resources in the span of a couple weeks.  We were "live in the moment" type of girls, knowing that there would be other treats laid out in the kitchen in days to come, so there was no purpose for keeping a reserve of individually wrapped chocolates and candies.  Also, there was the second wave of candy generated by a mound of rejected sweets that my brother refused to eat. 
     Of those rejected candies were the boxes of candy hearts called Sweethearts.  These "conversation hearts" each brandished a short message of love and/or adoration.  Originally, the hearts would carry little printed papers inside them with long messages that were often used during weddings.  They were more like fortunes that fast food Chinese cookies would hold:  "Married in pink, he will take a drink", "Married in white, you have chosen right", and "Married in satin, love will not be lasting".  When the candies were made for mass production in 1902, the could only fit messages that were a maximum of 8 characters long.  "Kiss Me", "Sweet Love", and "Be Mine" were a few of the first lines printed with pink sugary lettering on the hearts. 
     What I could never grasp as a child about these ridiculously sugary candies was if those silly lines printed on each heart would actually be used in conversation.  Like who would actually say the words "kiss me" to someone they loved?  I'm pretty sure that if that other person loved you, they wouldn't need prompting to kiss you.  My parents never said that to each other, or any other couple I had come in contact with.  Then there was the request: "love me".  To me, love wasn't something to ask for with words.  Love was something to ask for with your actions.  Candy is especially pathetic when asking for something so important. 
     The phrase that confounded me more than any other Valentine phrase was the words, "be mine".  "Be Mine" wasn't only printed on candy hearts, but on several pink and red cards made to celebrate the holiday.  Such a question had never made sense to me.  The two words suggested that one person was giving in to the ownership of another.  It seems to me that whoever requests such a thing is insecure, because when someone is "yours" then it makes it seem like they can never leave.  The other person is then trapped, because they are no longer the owner of themselves.  Who would ever want a relationship like that?  I don't know about you, but I definitely wouldn't. 
     However, only a few months ago I found myself speaking that exact cliché line aloud.  Not only aloud, but to a boy. 
     It was a quiet evening, just like many others.  We lay facing each other, bodies positioned in congruent shapes, so that our toes stretched to a similar length and our eyes were perfectly aligned.  Then I spoke the question that had frequently been lingering through my thoughts.  "Why do we do it?" I asked.  "Why do you do it?"
     Truthfully, I don't exactly remember what he said.  What stands out in memory are the words:  love you too much, and nobody else.  Then in conclusion, he asked me the same question, "Why do you do it?"
     Before this moment, I never thought about my reason in a medium that could be communicated.  My response was a strong feeling of...I don't know.  As his green eyes watched me, I searched for words that could come close to the emotion I was hoping to express.  Words, words, words, words, words.  Finally I parted my mouth to slowly spit out words that would eventually build upon each other into expression.  "I just..."  A second pause of searching.  "I just want you..."  That wasn't enough.  "To...be mine."  That was what I was searching for.  Yet as I said those words, I was appalled at myself.  For so long I avoided cliché "romantic" phrases like they were sharks swimming after me. 
     His response was silent and he kept watching me as I thought and spoke. 
     "I can't believe I just said that.  It sounds so dumb, but that's how I feel."
     "It's not dumb," he said as pushed a few strands of hair back behind my ear.  Careful fingers stroked across my cheek left an invisible pathway of raw nerve endings.  Even the slightest brush of contact could get my blood running at a faster pace. 
     His lips against mine isn't close enough when I have him in my grasp.  Press closer, closer, then maybe we'll dissolve into one being.  Maybe if every inch him covered me in a blanket of warmth I could feel his heart beat for mine and his breath fill my lungs.  Existing as a single person no longer feels adequate. 
     I now firmly believe that a separate verb should be created solely for this kind of emotion, because ownership is nothing like it.  Creating a new verb would then shoo away the commercializers that downplay the message by creating casual Valentine's Day cards about an emotion that spreads from the heart and infects your entire being.

Youth

We talk of love too wild to contain

Of words that form the limits of world's daylight

And throw away the things we can't explain.

We dream of passion to escape mundane 

Listen, our cries resounding, full of fight

We talk of love too wild to contain.

We clasp onto clever ideas with vain,

Wonderful persistence; minds do unite

And throw away the things we can't explain.

We dive into our bed of sheets with pain

Inhabited in hearts fragile and white

We talk about love too wild to contain.

We sing mouths wide with vigor, of tales our brains

Have grasped during times had at twilight

And throw away the things we can't explain.  

Whispered breaths capture wishes he have of gain

Greater than words considered in moonlight

We talk of love too wild to contain

And throw away the things we can't explain.  

A Sign of Narnia

"NARNIA" announces the standard 8 1/2" x 11" laminated white sheet of paper in block letters.  The sign is taped to the metal of a green lamppost.  However, the gleam of morning sun has distinguished the advertising spotlight of the post, so it waves unnoticed by passing pedestrians.  If the sign was larger or more significant, I believe it would be more easily noticed, without the need of being posted on a lamppost.  Instead it waves in the morning breeze, unreadable at unpredictable intervals, when the page gets folded over itself and only the word "NIA" or "ARNIA" is published to its busy audience.
Below the colored letters is a large arrow that takes up the other half of the limited space of 93 1/2 square inches of flimsy paper.  The first thing I do after noticing the post and paper, is to search the area in the direction the arrow points.  I see nothing.  There are only interweaving students hurrying to class with purposeful paces.  There are no stationary crowds.  There isn't a second lamppost surrounded by a circle of forest-y trees or snow or fawns or talking beavers.  Not wanting to be disappointed by the promise of the sign, I continue staring off into the distance wanting to catch a glimpse of something extraordinary.  I even pause for a moment and slow my pace so that each foot barely passes in front of the other.  But I see nothing.  The rush of ongoing pedestrians pushes me along to my next class that will start promptly at 11:00.
I cannot forget the laminated sign.  I continue to muse over its message through the entirety of the day.  Was I not worthy to see the evidence of magical land?  Did I not have a strong enough conviction or enough faith in its existence?  Those present and able to see the post are all unworthy, for we continued on with our mundane lives, while an invitation to a real-life fantasy appeared before us.  All I gave as conviction was a second look and weak curiosity; my toes still pointed toward daily responsibility.  I have no excuse.  When faced with a choice between ordinary and incredible, I made the wrong one.
Then I consider the sign being only a fragment of my imagination or only visible to me.  It didn't seem as though any other person saw it.  The sign called me to Narnia, posted on an iconic lamppost, and I ignored the calling.  Next I consider my bravery.  Ignoring the call could be a testament of my lack of bravery.  Armies of intelligent, talking animals were waiting for me to lead them in the fight for freedom, or perhaps to save them from peril.  Hearts were broken and blood was shed during the hour I sat scrolling through Pinterest in my Living with Plants class.  This proves I have no guts for adventure, only fingertips for browsing.

Someone New.

Times we met before he got my number:  3.  Times I complained to my roommates that he didn't ask for my number:  8.  Height:  5' 4".  Number of double takes when I first found this out:  1.  My Height:  5' 3".  Meals he has bought me:  5.  Days since our first date:  27.  Dates since then:  8.5.  Times he's asked me to be his girlfriend:  1/2. Poems he's written for me:  1.  Number of roses he bought me:  3.  My building and apartment number when I first met him:  23, #310.  Times he came to that apartment:  2.  Times we held hands:  7.  I initiated: 2, he initiated:  5; his hands were cold: 1, hot: 6.  Times he's kissed me:  1; on the cheek:  1, on the lips:  0.  Number of lingering hugs shared:  13.  Dreams I've had about him:  3.  Sleepless nights over him:  0, me:  1.  Text messages exchanged:  213.  Pick up lines used:  0.  Number of roommates he's met:  3.  Number of secrets he's told me:  11, hasn't told me:  2, I've told him:  6, I won't tell him even if he asks:  2.  Average number of times I think about him per day:  15.  Number of things I've said to him that has made him anything less than happy:  3.  Number of moments regretted:  0.  Number of "exes" he's met:  1.  People who are rooting for him:  3.  Journal entries mentioned in:  3.  Number of siblings, his:  4, mine:  3.  Number of months at BYU, him:  4, me:  8.  Months spent on a mission, him:  24, me:  -18.  Miles away from home, him:  842, me:  1,203.  Phone conversations he spoke in Portuguese in front of me:  1.  Books he's recommended to me:  7.  Hours spent together in the library:  1.  Plans made for future endeavors:  6.

The Secret Society of Abnormal Ears

     My mother has fair, white skin from a decent of European colonists from England and Ireland, mainly.  My father has brown skin with a little black mole on his cheek and one more on his calf.  His brown skin is inherited from a long decent of Filipino ancestors.  I am the oldest of four and our complexions range across a gradient of light brown and tan.  Anyone can see how four children are related to my dad, but at the grocery store my mo has often been asked, "Are those your kids?"  To this she would smile knowingly and reply, "Yes.  Yes, they are."  When we're all together, it looks like mom is an outcast among sun-kissed legs and arms, but you must look past the obvious to see a secret trait that tie my brother, and two sisters to my mom, closer than skin.  We share the secret trait of abnormal ears.
     Darwin's tubercle, also known as Darwin's bump, Woolnerian tip, or auricular tubercle, is a small bump found on the top part of the ear's helix.  Charles Darwin was the first to describe this feature in his book, called The Decent of Man, tying the trait of common ancestry among primates.  Having a bump on my ear must relate me to monkeys.  Personally, I try to avoid all association with being related to monkeys, they don't seem like an appealing ancestor.  I'd rather be related to flamingos with their long, elegant legs, or fish with their moist lips and swimming skills.
     Though little ear bumps are named after Darwin, he himself named it after Thomas Woolner, who sculpted the little bump in his statuette, Puck.  Currently, Puck can be found at Tate Britain, a national gallery of British art.  Tate Britain displays a wide variety of British art from the time of Tudor monarchs to the present day, with the goal of promoting interest in British art all over the world.  Among these British pieces, Puck stands on a little toadstool with the toes on his right foot pointed toward a toad sitting contently while a snake creeps stealthily towards it.  Puck is a bronze, imp-like creature with two triangle wings sprouting from the curved muscles of his back.  The sprite wears a mischievous grin that spreads across his rounded cheeks as he is about to warn the toad of incoming danger.  Relation to a sprite makes more sense to me.  I share many traits with a sprite:  small feet, short stature, graceful, mischievous.  Puck particularly seems relatable, flitting around to warn small animals of danger. 
     My mother is especially like the clever creature, Puck, because she is always quick to save small animals.  This past summer she came to the rescue of a small baby bunny found in our backyard.  She found the brown, fuzzy figure lying mangled among the long green grass, unable to move.  Everything in her hands then fell to the ground and she ran inside with the bunny cupped in her hands.  The furry baby was sad and helpless, one of its hind legs dangling by a flap of skin.  We think a dog had come after her, chomped down on her delicate hind leg, and then by some miracle she had managed to get free.  Several rags, a flimsy brown box, and a large pair of scissors were collected in preparation for surgery.  Mom and my adopted brother then disappeared into the bathroom with supplies and cottontail.  After a handful of nerve-wracking moments, a loud cry echoed through the house.  In my experience with rabbits, they usually make short, quiet noises that sound sweet and pleading.  But the sound that pealed through the space of the house that day was long and sorrowful.  The sound pierced every heart in attendance.  Nothing can compare to the sorrowful cry of a baby bunny.  When I remember that day and the valiant acts of my mother, that sound always echoes in my ears, a sound that I can never forget. 
     I am thankful to have a tubercle on my ear like my mom; it connects me to her valiance.  My siblings and I have different variations of our mother's ear mutation.  My sister carries the burden of ears slightly larger than normal.  Most people can't tell, but often she self-consciously covers them with strategically placed strands of thick brown hair.  My brother's ear features a dimple on a slight fold on the edge of his left ear, to match charming dimples on his smiling cheeks.  My little sister's hides a little bump of cartilage behind her right ear, which she rubs with her fingers when she's trying to think really hard.  Mom and I are the closest in our abnormalities, tubercles pointing out like elfish ears.  The only difference is that hers on her right. 
     Elfish ears were not originally pointed; they were round and human-like in pictures, until Arthur Rackham illustrated all non-humans with pointed ears.  Garth Williams, inspired by Rackham's work, began to portray some of his elves with pointed ears and some without.  Pointed ears on elves have been said to come from folklore, when storytellers describe elves with leaf-like qualities, including leaf-like ears.  Audiences then assumed it meant they were pointed at the tip.
     Such features as ears transform the human into a mystical creature, whether it is an imp, sprite, elf, or fairy.  In my mind, mom, my two sisters, brother and I are tied by a mystical quality, wrought by a simple transformation.  Would the transformation of any other feature be just as magical, mysterious?  Misshapen teeth could resemble the terror of a vampire.  Hairy legs and trimmed beard resemble the cross between human and goat of a fawn.  I believe that we could each relate a unique personal quality to a magical creature.  It only takes a small stretch of the imagination.  Consider then how folklore contains many human-like creatures.  There is something inside us all that yearns for each of our abnormal qualities to enhance our character, or grant us power.

Touch

This morning my hands wrote with a pencil, turned the key to check the mail, stirred my tea. I rubbed the ridges of my neck, felt the knots beneath the skin. At the nape began the roots of my soaking hair. Fingertips traced the border of skin and hair, the drops of water. Mornings are quiet and grey like the steam rising from my mug. There is a pause before the day begins; I feel it in my bones, a slow breath before the stretch.
This evening my hands ran through his hair, traced his jawline, spread against the bareness of his back. I grasped pieces of him with my fingers, feeling his warmth. His lips were soft. They always were.

Ode to Buttons

I always seem to be losing my
buttons.
They're falling off my
winter jackets,
colorful cardigans,
blouses and sleeves.
They leave loose strings
and silly holes among the predictable pattern.

I always collect buttons in a
glass jar.
There are some I've found
on the ground
between parked cars,
blended into carpeting,
forlorn in corners,
and lost in closets.

I have collected many types of
buttons.
Ones with two holes,
some with four;
ones with designs,
some with carvings;
ones that are circular,
some that are square.
Sometimes I wonder if
the possibilities for buttons could end.
Could three holes be poked
instead of four?

I take Wednesday afternoons
to sew on my buttons.
By hand, of course,
because to risk a button under the
plunging needle
powered by the strength
of a machine,
is too large to take.
The first thread through each hole,
hinders a button wobbly
and temporary.
Only several minutes later,
when lines between holes
become thicker and prominent,
does the button stand
with a firm confidence.

Some prefer zippers,
with their quick teeth,
or Velcro,
with its firm grip,
maybe laces,
with the creative freedom of knots.

I prefer buttons.
They slide their way through
slivers between fabric
to stand and appear before us all
in silence and confidence.
They stand with individual pride,
organized into dutiful rows.
They elegantly line
the spine of an anxious bride,
small and white,
just like her teeth,
uncovered by lips parted in a smile.
And just like the hands
grasped between him and I,
do the buttons hold
by the strength of being intertwined.

Happiness

Warm bodies and stretched smiles,
precise steps and reaching arms.
Girls are pinwheels,
Men as branches,
both move in unison like a breeze
continuously moves them across the floor.

I watch with wide eyes
nothing in particular,
but everything at once:
knees, toes, thighs, hips,
necks, eyes, spine, lips,
Each feature placed in unison,
a chorus of movement that fills the room.

Their bodies sing to be a humbling tune,
tell a story that the mouth
cannot shape alone.
I listen intently,
my heart echoing the rhythm of each phrase.

Future days hold the beauty
of my song and my story.