Sublimation (June 30th)

It was Spring and I was fourteen when I learned

the word "catharsis," a word like a flower bud.

Later, seventeen and wreathed in symbols, it

was a pair of pretty eyes sinking to the bottom

of a prettier river. But tonight, it's my car, open

windows, the radio (was it on or off, each was

worse than the other), the illegal parking space 

across from your parents' house, the sudden 

knowledge that I could not contain my feelings.

To stare face first into the sublime is to confront

terror, to lose oneself in the torrential swell of all, 

become only waves. This isn't what we want,

better a seashell, something to hold to the ear 

and listen to the hush of distant times, at most

a map stitched from longing and struggle.

The truth: it is my smallness that allows these
floods to throw my slivers of floatsam about
the surf, but it is my smallness that ties me
to you. I am no more a masterpiece than
a photograph is a painting, than a leaf is a tree,
than a memory is a memoir. And yet, I am here,
my car with open windows, the thrum of silent
radio, and the never ending scratching in the
insufficient cage of my ribs. There is greatness
in this world and now this thing inside of me
can feel it.

Four lines for July in West Michigan

Cherry pits, a basil plant on the window sill
in a pot a size too small. I ring my eyes
with liner and try to shake my fear from
my shoulders like a moth shaking the dew.