poetry: i am working on this one, it is not done. indeed

it is a late night
when my palms are dry and cracked
from dish soap and salt and i am
listening to arlo guthrie,
quiet and easy paced and
making me think about you.

i think
i have grown up in an enchanted
world, something my mother wove
with her secret ways, her
secret nights when maybe
she takes our black cat, perhaps her
familiar and she has made for me a world
where i am learning something
about the path others
have started building for me.

and i consider:
you have come into my
home and my
world,
the place my mother made for me
and i have opened it up to you
and said,
"please, come in"
and you have, warm and laughing
and settling on the couch. your hands
are firm, so is your stare so
i am learning:

keep your eyes on the ground
keep your head down and
no one gets hurt.


you make your words with razor edges,
couch your compliments in
heavy lead so they will sink
and no one will hear them. you
hide sharp corners when you
say love, you add conditions when
you talk about friendship.

and that's gotta be ok.



sometimes, i think of you and
i hum something i've loved and you've
hated and i think of futures and
hard stares and eyes that speak
and how you wield your love
like a weapon,
ready to kill.


ok, we use our tools differently.



and lorde, she said
"the master's tools will never
dismantle the master's
house" and i think about this
and wonder when
i stopped trying to use fire to fight fire
and why you never stopped.

i only ever got my hands burned
and scared, maybe
you had better luck.