LYNNFIELD

your face is what my heart remembers:

tiny little stretch marks
pleated out the space
for you to live.

i remember your words deliberate,

as if speaking were like
balancing an egg on end.

fingertips bracing the shape of a curve
before letting go...

and hoping for the best.

HOW TO FAKE MYSTERIOUS

then there is the gray to get over.

the sky,
devoid of color
gives back the blue
like a gift it didn't deserve.

i remember the year
i wore my troubles like a hat
and tipped it politely
to young girls i passed,

even though i have since
hung it up and hidden it,

i'm still shy at the faces
who have worn it with me.

the truth is more inviting
when you choose to hold it back,

the way bed ridden bodies
are nothing to get excited by.

we all need a bird on our shoulder
whispering over and over,

"someday, you will die."