Water always can be found
in close proximity to water.
Or so you discover while
snorkeling in your own lagoon.
You have to lose her
to truly miss her. Yet you also have to miss her
to truly appreciate how lucky you are
that she’s never left.
There is very little you can do now.
Dreams, like wayward whales, echolocate in the deep.
On this planet, only humans
can remove their clothes without fear.
I always fight back at what
I can’t see, what others tout
as something to celebrate;
I am just me.
a bit of broken crumbled bits,
maybe colours jeweled, more
are earthen and jaded, jagged
and bitten; undefined
should someone care
to reach in, try to rearrange,
a collage might appear
for a moment’s time
just as often, out of habit,
crushed edges bite back
in defense, of toppled walls,
set in mardi gras stone.
what more can break forth
from crushed dreams,
discarded dross, than litter
strewn about, as I pretend
my way through this balancing act:
dancing from trip wire
to land mine, wondering when
the next garrot will marry me
to the guillotine.
I. a.m. j.u.s.t. m.e.
~all rights reserved
It is in the silent grey of the mornings that I miss you most… Shrouded in solitude and wrapped in mounds of pillows and blankets, I stretch one foot out in search of the cool sheets and think that maybe your foot is out there somewhere too, searching for mine in this empty cold loneliness.
Maybe, you are laying in your bed, staring into the darkness, trying to read my heart, wondering, as I do, if love does always triumph over sadness…
Maybe, you are rolling to your side and tucking the pillows close to your chest, as I do, wishing you were safe in my arms as you bury your face and hate yourself for being stubborn and not just doing what your heart has been choking out past the tamped down tears and vacant smiles…
Maybe, your hand is heavy, as mine is, with needing that touch to cool the fevered pain and that touch, that tender brushing of fingertips to reignite those flames we have smothered with our foolish rain…
Maybe, I am, as you are, all alone..
~all rights reserved
by Dobby Gibson
All day for too long
everything I’ve thought to say
has been about umbrellas,
how I can’t remember how
I came to possess whatever weird one
I find in my hand, like now,
how they hang there on brass hooks
in the closet like failed actors,
each one tiny or too huge,
like ideas, always needing
to be shaken off and folded up
before we can properly forget them on the train.
Most of my predictions are honestly
just hopes: a sudden sundress in March,
regime change in the North, the one where Amanda
wins the big book award from the baby boomers.
There’s that green and white umbrella
the cereal company interns handed us
outside the doomed ball game,
the one just for sun,
the one with the wooden handle
as crooked as the future
that terrifies me whenever one of us uses it
as a stand-in for a dance partner.
You once opened it in the living room
so Scarlett could have a picnic
beneath something that felt to her like a tent
as it felt to me like my prediction
we would live forever was already true.
When I want to try to understand now
I tend to look up and how
truth be untold, I might see nothing
more than a few thousand pinholes in black nylon,
it’s enough to get you to Greece and back,
or something to kiss beneath,
who knows how this is going to play out?
I know you won’t ever be able to say
exactly what you’re feeling either,
the way worry might pop open overhead
like fireworks oozing pure midnight —
will we ever see the sun? —
the way we’re sure to pull closer
to whatever’s between us, the rain playing
the drum that’s suddenly us.