Edge of Brave

Your eyes always seem wanting, waiting. Skimming the edge of brave;
Don’t close them just yet

Something is always getting through, you see. Your hands tell stories; cusping the air between words

That’s where you’ll find me.
That’s where I find you.
That’s where we find the end.



I sit on my warm porch to take in the temporary warmth. A book is resting in my lap that is yet to be opened. The words not ready to be taken in.

I wonder if you see me. I wonder if you notice the crack in the sidewalk. I wonder if you hear the dog barking.

Did you know that your shoes are two different shades of brown? And they are the best shades.


Summer Youth

Sitting on a swing too hot for my legs and summer didn’t care; I could tell by how it tries to imprint youth on my peach legs.
The house is swollen with heat, and mom told me to play outside. I was getting too old to “play,” but at ten, I wanted to hold onto the sweet hand of adolescence as long as I could.
Our two swings hang from the same poles as our laundry. The pieces of clothing are like lifeless people on display. I look at each piece as I swing.
Church dress; the frills and bows quietly shush me.
Older sister’s jeans; dripping blue with envy at the hem.
Mom’s favorite dress; the shape of crimson wisdom fills the yard.
I picture it draped on me, and stop swinging. The dress goes passed my feet; dirty toes peek out like little pieces of charcoal.


I’m sitting on the couch in the living room with you. My voice next to me like a holy shadow. I admire your beard and wonder how long it took for you to grow it.

I whisper, “I love you Dad.”

You turn and nod, and go back to the TV.

I watch as you take a long drag on your cigarette, like it was a song.

And I see the only real part of you drift away from me.


I feel naked

Like the start of May

White, then loud dark

Cupping handfuls of shade

Trying to cover myself like

Lily pads

The sun gets in

With thick summer

Leaning on my veins, blushing

A pretty rose thing

Never ready for the



The wind pulls at me like a young mother in a crowded mall waiting for overpriced pretzels; her hand wraps around mine like a lose vine, she whispers,

“It’s not safe.”

And as I round the corner in my expensive running shoes, I say to myself,

“I thought the wind was.”

And see nothing in the horizon to stop me.