Defiance

Courage wears faded jeans

in a church parking lot,

and only hesitates a moment

before heading inside.

*

Courage gets up

when the pain is bad.

Stretches out the aching,

and goes to work.

*

Courage’s leg jiggles,

hands stutter over strings,

but keep strumming

for a roomful of people.

*

Courage falls down

and gets back up.

Moves forward,

seeing no other option.

*

Courage is afraid.

Courage would not exist

without fear.

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Dancing Alone

I am like water,

smooth and swift,

ever in motion.

I move like earth,

slow but unstoppable,

never overbalanced.

I fall like air,

rising again,

constant in change.

I burn like fire,

steady, flickering, spinning,

home.

The world dances with me.

What Language Can’t Say

Feelings

can’t be measured or quantified

like color

or mass

or sound.

They don’t translate to words.

How am I feeling?

Dissassembled,

Alive,

Something.

*

Lindenberg said

that poetry

doesn’t happen

cuz of something we want

to say,

it happens

because we can’t say something.

Language

is inadequate

to contain the deepest pieces

of a human soul.

Poetry tries

to say the things

language never found words for.

*

Lewis said

there’s a speech

at the center of everyone’s soul

that we spend our lives

trying to say.

I wonder

can language hold that speech?

can a drawing or poem say it?

Or will my speech remain

in the deepest parts of myself,

unspoken,

unseen,

alone?

I am trying to say something.

I always have been.

I don’t know what it is.

Alive

Running through mesquites,

sun on my shoulders,

fighting

for sandpaper breaths.

never approaching fast.

it was awful.

it was awesome.

*

Rhythms that matched my pulse,

handing glowsticks down the row

shouting the chorus

with the man on stage,

with the crowd,

united.

*

Sketching my newborn cousin

in our grandmother’s arms

rubbing his silky hair

holding his tiny hand

in mine.

*

Throwing snow at my brother,

or water balloons,

or socks,

or paper airplanes,

or fallen leaves.

*

The first time I drew a mermaid,

eleven and gangly and wrapped up

in stories

that guided my lines.

the mermaid I painted a decade later,

with

a shark’s tail

a steady gaze

only the vaguest idea

what I was doing.

*

Dancing

in a garden at night,

on a stage, wearing glitter,

in a kitchen,

or a dream,

or a studio,

or a quiet warehouse.

sandpaper breaths are an old friend,

and so’s the burn between my shoulder blades.

I jumped more

when I was young,

but the dance has the same heart.

*

A Gila monster

sighted at dusk

on the side of a dirt road.

a peacock

wandering, gleaming,

in a zoo.

a tree, old and bent and strong.

ants on the sidewalk.

fish in a tank.

a coyote, half glimpsed in tall grass.

a heron at a river.

a dragon

that no one can touch.

*

Cutting

paper and fabric and soul

into bits,

reassembling

into something new,

*

Finding a story

that fills a space

I didn’t know my heart

was missing.

telling a story

to do the same

for a heart I can’t even see.

*

Standing in a thunderstorm

wet clothes

bare feet

just listening

to the pulse of the rain.

The University of Dreams

Welcome to the University,

where we trade in

memories.

Ever been to Tir an nOg?

No?

We had someone last week—

traded the memory of an afternoon there

in exchange for—

well. I can’t say.

confidentiality, you know.

but the memory’s for sale,

if you’re curious about the place.

so are lessons in

everything

from the physics of the waking world

to the craft of yarn-making.

What about you?

Got any memories worth sharing?

A sunrise in the waking world?

A battle? The story of that scar?

A forbidden kiss?

Those are always in demand.

Won’t hurt none—

well, maybe a little—

to sell it to us.

Ye’ll even still remember it!

just not as strong as before.

Not interested. Huh.

so why are you here?

everyone comes here wanting something.

a gift, really?

what kind?

celebration,

apology,

just because?

those all have different needs.

no—you don’t know

what you’re after.

tell me about your student,

I’ll figure it out.

As for payment—

oh. Yes,

yes,

that should do nicely.

What Art Is

What is art?

For me:

*

It’s sawdust in my hair

and ink on my hands

and clay on my clothes.

*

It’s pulling my feelings

into something more tangible

like an image on paper.

It’s the fear that comes when

I put those feelings

where others can see them.

*

It’s angry scribbles and

crumpled-up concepts and

weeks of hating

everything I make.

*

It’s scrubbing my hands

again and again and again

trying to feel my own skin.

*

It’s hard, and it’s wonderful.

It’s the delight from a project

finally coming together,

or a person

who says

I made something that helped them.

*

Sand in my eyes

Send away

Thoughts of tomorrow;

How does a mind

Slow down?

Sleep.

Dream.

Yeah, that

Doesn’t happen soon.

*

My ancestor

Bleaches my hair,

Gives cryptic words.

Her name means wisdom.

When I wake,

I’ll wonder

Why I never told her:

Issalaamu alaykum.

May peace be upon you.

Perhaps it already is.

*

I hide in a box

Of fantasies and

Children’s toys,

All gray.

The fear is scarlet.

Color is strange,

In dreams,

In memories.

*

Wake.

Glare at the ceiling.

*

Sleep.

*

A wandering melody

Of yellow notes

Plays over me.

I run from monsters,

Faster than I’ve ever run,

Waiting for

Sandpaper breaths

That don’t come.

The monsters

Aren’t scary.

An endlessly shallow river

Is now deep and blue.

I catch a fractal glimpse–

*

Of nothing.

An alarm rings.

Colors fade to amber.

I clamber out of bed.