Misgivings

I.

I am a tender thing, and when I am a tender thing, I chew on the fat of my misgivings. Small and jagged like stones, my privileges gather: visible, inconvenient, dangerous. They occupy the corners, the space between each tooth in my wanting mouth, wanting more of the fat, the stuff that lacks nourishment but maintains indecency and ample amounts of tenderness.

II.

I am well-intentioned, but I am not you. I do not know what you face. I do not know the ideas brewing in your brain, the shapes of injustice carrying weight in your own life. I am only a child, a tender thing, chewing on information, breaking my teeth on confrontations, confirmations of my being me, my being white, my being female-born, my being. I am a tender thing, because without missteps, without compassion, I am not myself.

III.

My privileges are also me, pieces of my broken teeth, and everyday, I try not to swallow them.

Hopeful

As long as we are swallowing air
in our little glass bubbles, and as long as we aim
our sights above water, we can make do,
swilling our chemical soda and taking candy
from strangers.

I only did that once--take candy--but once was enough.
It was because he didn't care for it,
each wrapper filled
with little sugary puffs of air.
I breathed life into his mouth,
but it never reached his lungs.

I poured myself
to fill the contours of the glass,
surprised at how well
I adapted to the shape,
until the cracks showed
on the other side,
and the air I swallowed
stretched my gills,
and the soda I drank
gave me a headache. I only want
to be seen. I want
the softness of my ghost self
to wrap around your ghost self. I want
to look over the rim together
and see beyond the glass shell
and into the wild of a fresh start.

Pasta and Tomato Paste

Is this my life?
Am I breathing
underwater?
- Metric

With a life carefully measured,
one can find time to tear-up
between four and five p.m.,
before the buzzer rings
for the next shift.
A smart one is a quiet one, a careful one,
refusing to spill milk
to cry over.
"When you're finished with school,
your life will be fine," they said,
thumbs under suspenders,
and I believed them.
Instead, I'm the little engine that could,
and I'm running out of steam.
I'm the little hamster running furiously in the wheel,
working hard, blood pumping
to all the right places,
but getting absolutely nowhere.
"We need to know
where our students are coming from,"
they said. "Some of them
use food pantries."
And I know, because I've seen young people there
while I'm picking up my own generic pasta,
my own off-brand tomato paste.
I'm told that this is America now.
I'm told I'm one of the lucky ones.
Some days, between four and five p.m., I forget.
I allow my brain to shove that file,
full of blessings and prayers,
into the back of the cabinet
so that I can be angry,
so that I can be sad
before starting another shift at a different job,
before trying to be quiet and careful, and failing.

hudor, endure

We hold the same fears, the same troubles
washing up on the shore, rocks turned to pebbles,
smoothed by the waves crashing, the heaving, the sighing.
Secrets kept like broken
shells spit-up by the ocean--
we lie to ourselves,
and we have the misfortune
of washing up on the shore
all of our indiscretions,
our tiny hopes, sanded smooth.
Directly, we scope out
a safe place to lay our blankets--
not too close to the edge,
but not too far, either,
so that we can watch the sky meet the water,
introduce themselves over and over,
like forgetful lovers,
each creation
a rebound.
I am the sky
and you are the water.
I am the shell
and you are the sand,
brushing me clean and smooth.
How much of a flake am I?
Pieces of myself
flake off everyday,
and wash away.
How much of a lover am I?
I wait by the edge of the water
before I am clean and smooth.

Waiting to Spoil

We broke each other's hearts,
cracked thin little shells over the heat.
It happened gradually, with clumsy hands.
We let each other down,
not easily, not intentionally,
but we let each other down:
our hands hard, our fingers joint-less,
holding each other's hearts
over the black gas stove.
                                                     We punctured the membranes
with our sharp little traumas.
When the insides cooked,
the scent filled our nostrils
and we questioned whether to feast
or to turn the heat completely off
and let the evidence of our failures
grow cold and stick to the sides of grief,
waiting to spoil.