The Box of Chocolates
3.

The blush I ordered to affirm my worth came in the mail the same day that I felt good about fall.
Everything
except from behind the full length mirror in the theater bathroom that night
felt like my hair that unloosed from the oily tangle of boar bristles and using dry shampoo too often.
My mom and my mom’s best friend (other mother)
were surprised by the silver jewel color harlequin shirt I enraptured and inducted at the thrift store on Squam Lake.
Their suspicions made me suspicious of the shirt
but it was an honest shirt and my first impression was kindred spirit and always right.
I wore it in the fall with a grey pullover and felt like riding a bicycle with a leather backpack from Spain and a blue skater helmet over wild hair.
There are a lot of places I belong and scary things I deserve to do.

2.

Sinking into a mattress is becoming part of sleep.
The soles of my scaley feet become dirt and rocks in the summer,
my skin becomes sun and my hair grows into the wind.
In the fall, my arms are sweaters
and my legs are busier than bicycle wheels.
Poems that turn into fall turn into love letters to a grey and confused body
losing consciousness in the hurrying from the cold.

1.

Anna wants crows feet
asymmetrical faces
long grey hair.

Confronting my assembled skin, appendages, tissues, and, somewhere, bones,
I easily love the scar of a stray brick on my right knee I’ve had for eighteen years,
my stuck together middle toes
webbed stumps that don’t actually help me swim,
my insatiable hair, tumbling unpredictably from my scalp in over eager curls or wisps or tangles.
My prehensile thumbs are not ungraceful,
my barely B breasts bounce along cheerfully,
my hardened feet are miniature superheroes,
impenetrable by hot or cold or glass or splinters.
Twin marks someone once called a vampire bite on my forearm,
the stray freckle over my right eyebrow,
the short strands that escape all coiffing.
Eye lashes that keep sweat from eyes are the right kind of eyelashes and under my own eyelashes
I rub the photoshop out of my eyes
to see the squinting eyes and roughed up hands that make us beautiful people.

I normally only post text but I’m moving next year and need to start selling some of my fashion, so here are the details about some of my rarely worn clothes. Msg for more info/pics.

Black Lace Tee
H&M size xsmall
$10

Gold Sequin Mini Skirt
Wet Seal size small
$8

Black Tiger Sequin Mini Skirt
Wet Seal size small
$8

Yellow Blouse
BCX size small
$12

Silk Bow Shirt
Forever 21 size small
$10

I’ll do payment via GoogleWallet or Paypal if you insist. All prices include shipping within the US and I’ll knock a dollar off for every 2 things you get to the same address! 

Or you can have all the things for $30.

Killing Time, Murdering Sleep

Time
far away shadows might move faster than light so I, their caster, might too
beat time
surcease success on this bank and shoal
and on the shore of the lake
in the wood heated water
the Milky Way was no bigger than the wasp bite on my wrist
and no smaller than the Appalachian Trail.
I will trammel up adventure,
we were not meant to live quiet sleeping lives
caged in time.
I know that families do not exist but if I had one this would be it.
And if I fly to Europe, fall in love, hike the Appalachian Trail,
if I study performance art in Paris,
if my heart were breaking over my last dime,
I would still call this home
even if tangled roots on the bank trammel up the consequences.
Tie me down and stretch time out.
I would take the small mountains,
hungry skin and decadent academics
of people who love the people I love.

Skin

1) Shadows- do they still follow their casters in the night? Anyone’s shadow might own the world- nocturnal dictators.

2) My teeth get dirty first and can’t take a shower. Also I have a phobia of toothpaste spit.

3) I nanny children and am only sometimes harshly reminded that I am not one.

Suspend Cœur

I fell in love with a French boy

the way you believe in a carnival haunted house

or slide your fingers off the brakes as you roll to a red light-

smooth roads tickle indulgent adrenaline.

But not all drivers look both ways.

Fairy tales don’t strike me as false,

actors aren’t lying when they get into costume.

Like the gentle rapture of a well-written book,

I fold under my pillow,

whisper my secret in French to my lips and my imagination,

suspended in luxurious memories

of a French boy who made me breakfast

and smiled when I found him in the World Cup crowd.

Great feats for low stakes.

I gave up trying to weigh and measure kindnesses

pressed into my carry on luggage, already skirting weight limits.

Certain stories I illustrate, return on post cards like library books,

only to find again- rechecked out by mistake?

Little butterflies of disbelief.

Goodbye, Anna

I love you in the way

your boyfriend is moving to California for you

and I would never have moved to Spain if you had stayed.

I will never break pieces of my heart

to feed to post cards in Paris.

I will never grow inside of and next to anything precarious;

disentangling is not for me.

We sorted out the refrigerator magnets,

I gave you my duffel bag.

You took your printer to your parent’s house,

I emailed your mom.

I crawled into your bed,

we talked about whether everything would fit in the car,

how heavy your suitcases were.

Not the bikes rusting in the basement,

not the full cans of spray paint,

not that we will never live together again.

The last thing you said to me was

"I have so many feelings I can’t feel,"

Later, at the airport, you held my arm like it would keep you from embarrassing tears.

I said “me too,” and we went to sleep.

Not Speaking English

Paris taught me how to be melancholy in the city and Madrid taught me to be alone in the summer.

I thought about pretending to be lost and asking for directions in Spanish, but I didn’t want to seem like a gringa so I kept walking.

Now, sitting by the Singing Fountain on East Passyunk in Philadelphia -which my phone still spells with an F-

I regret not saying hola instead of hi when guy on the corner said hello.

They might have stopped me to ask if I spoke Spanish and we might have had a conversation and I might have spoken to a human today.

I count my dollars to see if I have enough for a margarita at Stoagie Joe’s which

I do but I don’t have enough for a good tip and I was walking anyway because the girl I babysit told me I have huge thighs.

So I sit down to write by the fountain and wish I still had the excuse that I don’t speak the right language for being alone.

El Que No Apoya, No Folla

Madrid is good-to-be-back like sun after London

and my tongue after Paris.

Last night the Chilean at the bar said in Spanish I could understand like fireworks,

Santiago is my mother but Madrid is my lover

and would I say the same thing and about where?

The tickle of the sand, the loud, sweaty dark that sunrise follows of Barcelona

nibble my skin and brush my future like a fling.

And Madrid is kindred spirits in the walking of a city.

I would say I fell in love but

I like to say I am a rebel

and las catalunyas son muy pesadas

is the opinion of Madrid

and while, like the French, I am indignant and artistic

the simple smiles of a single language and being happy if dissatisfied

looks more like me.

What a mystery to be understood!

Maybe I will agree we are all the same now 

and I will hop language barriers like not paying my fare on the metro.