Delicious

Finding a taste sweeter than water
is a hallmark of either
taste-bud impairment
from sugar-poisoning,
most excellent tea,
or just foul water.

By Choice

It's not that I can't see a future without you--
it would be possible; I could make it work.
It just doesn't look as grand to me.
It's not that I can't survive without you--
I could; I'm more than a bit hardy.
I just don't want to need to try.
It's not that the world is dark without you--
but the lights are lovelier with you,
and I just don't want to go alone.

So, no, I don't need you in my life.
I just want you there. For all the rest of it.
Because I can flourish, survive, enjoy
all I have, by myself, and it would still be good--
I just choose not to, because I like what I see
better when you're in it.
Which is what I always wanted from love,
someone I chose to be with, not because
I had to, or needed to, or was afraid not to,
but because I wanted to.
There is no love truer than that.

Somewhat...

it's not
that the world hasn't changed.
Or that things aren't better,
because they are, somewhat.

But
the other day Dad and I were
talking politics, and Mom was
listening,
and after he went on about money
and how the world can't be fixed
without it, and lies and broken promises;
and I went on about unfairness,
and how politicians portray
women and act like women
are obstacles or less than
people; and Dad countered
with business and economy and
encouraging job growth would give
women power and money, and
I said it still didn't outweigh the
hate...
After that, when Mom caught
my eye and then grimaced and
with a sad voice said, "I never
thought I'd hear my daughter
fighting the exact same battles
I fought at her age," that was when
I knew
that darkness of soul doesn't leave
this Earth quietly, or quickly
but lingers long past its welcome.

And I'll remember, when my
daughters fight the same fight I
argue today--I'll remember that
no one told me I had to be a secretary
or that I shouldn't bother with college--
I'll remember that Dad married Mom
on purpose; that he helped teach me
to trust myself, to earn for myself,
to learn my own mind, and to make
my own world mine; I'll remember
things are better, but
at the same time, they're not fixed,
and probably won't be in a lifetime,
and that doesn't mean I've failed,
only that the world has, just a little,
just as it's also won, just a little.

Runny frosting and crumby cake

Drips of frosting
roll down the cracks
in lemon cake and pool
on the plate beneath. My
spatula scrapes the skin off
the cake, but the sweet lemon
taste can't be ruined by crumbs,
and if it looks a little worn, it's still
the loveliest taste.

After a restless night

One of those mornings
where dreams still crawl across the backs
of my eyelids and gravity sits too high
up my chest--
When sleep was fitful and clingy, and
morning came too early, taunting in her
bloody, slow approach, with her rays
of first light gleaming slowly over a horizon
I'd rather not have seen, and her colors
hidden by a snatch of last-minute sleep
that was in turn obscured by the buzzing phone.
One of those mornings.
I creep along in traffic with a million other
ants heading to our respective hills, and
feel the weight of too-short sleep in my arms,
at the back of my head, in my stomach floating
too close to the back of my throat in the shade
of the trees that line the highway. But then
the road bends, and the trees part. A slice
of early light slips through, and trickles up
my arm to wash my face of early shadows,
pouring warmth along my cheekbone.
One of those mornings, but now I think
I'm okay.

Raindrops, Whiskers, Kettles and Mittens

I'm holding a sweet in my hand--a chocolate
square, with salt and caramel, wrapped in
dark, dark blue foil. I hold it behind my back,
scooting into the room on tiptoe feet, and
wrap my arms around your waist, opening
my hand so you see the chocolate in my
palm. You turn from digging through your bag
and grin, and rip it open (it takes three tries
to get it fully free) and break the piece of
chocolate into two, munching on one half,
feeding me the other.

You probably don't think much of it,
because we do this all the time, but it's
one of my favorite things, to bring you
a piece of chocolate, and earn a smile
in return. Plus getting half the chocolate
is a nice bonus, too. And soon we'll watch
our favorite cartoons, and I'll put my
head on your chest and hear your
heartbeat, the taste of chocolate
lingering on my tongue, and think
I'm pretty happy doing that, too.

And then you beat me into the water.

I'm watching the cloud scoot by;
behind it an overcast sky pushes
slowly the other way. The grey
over lighter grey
seems awkward and dark above
the lake, out of context compared
to the sun-scarred planks under
my bare toes. You'd think I'd want
to go in before I got wet, but why?
I came to swim, and the lake isn't
getting any dryer because the sky
is a little wet.

As long as there's no thunder,
I'll slip into the water and tug myself
into place in the inner tube, letting
my head fall back against the plastic
plumped with fifteen minutes of
near-hyperventilating breathing
interspersed with long, slow, deep
breaths to keep myself not dizzy.
My toes will drift along the silky, silty
mud of the lake bottom, tiny clam
shells half-buried, until I dig them
out absently. Or I'll feel the slimy
pull of weeds, the water fronds that
clog the bottom from four feet deep
to the middle of the lake--they're
why nobody ever swims alone.

I'm in my tube. No worries. You
don't have to come in; just watch
from the dock as I swim, sheltered
under the gazebo. You don't have
to get wet.
Unless you want to.