On the coldest day of December, we sit sipping frostbite through our crazy straws
And whispering avalanches
Balancing grace on our fingertips like Quaker prayers for salvation,
Remembering who we used to be.
Before this, I was colder.
I was longer; I was bowled over by consequence
By tradition, by shapes with empty edges
But before this, I wrote.
I scribbled constantly and endlessly and faithlessly:
I drew up maps of the easiest escape route,
Wrote entire chapters of my life in rhyme,
In time with the coldest heartbeat I have never really known
And in the end, it always boiled down to Fat-Cat Forget-Me-Nots and a stumble-step so cold it shivered.
It came down to breaking softly,
Swiftly moving, sleeping through and breathing through straws,
As if yesterday’s news never taught us anything about NEED.
I wrote mixing-bowl madness like you wouldn’t believe-
Twisted myself up just to wring myself out
And there were words, real words, trailing behind me when I walked, before this.

These days, you’d think I have nothing to say.
It’s been a year since I’ve written anything worthwhile, and I was worried
Cause if you asked me, I could tell you: I’ve got miles.
I could fill you in on fabric yards measured in square centimeters crawled sideways up
From things I didn’t know I had like:
He gets mad when I tell him I’m scared about his stray hairs
And fair-weather waiting for me to fill in all my backyard holes.
But mud is so much easier to slide through, collide through,
Pleading, “stay a while, don’t you know the stars forgot to shine tonight?”
But I don’t write.
Because, in the end, it comes down to waiting.
I will not settle for a poem that doesn’t shatter window panes.
It needs to be big.
Elephant in the room big like
Thought bubble stratosphere, ear-splitting, hold tight
Drowning in mercury, breaking on Venus BIG.
A love poem shaking the earth like baby Jesus’ rattle on a Sunday in church.
A poem to match the size of the love it carries, and pure.

And until it is possible to trap to paper
The kind of mudslide love that breathes through straws,
I don’t write.
And I don’t mind.
Mike Fitz told me, “Never trade a warm bed for a full page”
And I know, in the end, I got the better deal.
Because, in the end, it comes down to whispers,
Avalanches calling, “Stay a while. Don’t you know the moon is on our side tonight?”
Tonight,
I’ve got light years of disappearing
Leaving notes on shards of glass shaped like twisting,
Broken window breeze,
Baby Jesus shaking steadily in time with the warmest heartbeat I have ever really known and Yes,
I understand the irony of writing about not writing but put it aside,
Because this is bigger than that.

Because, before this, there was winter.
There were words, and they were lovely,
But I never really learned to weave the letters together, to hook C’s with O’s
Or to wrap myself in vowels or constant consonants and so
Before him, I was cold.
And now, before him, I am shaking
And we’re breaking on Venus big,
Mixing-bowl madness like you would not believe
Scribbled sideways in secret, whispered hideaways through walls.
And I’m a trapdoor fall and a few dirty dollars away from believing,
Whole heart,
That the sun shines at midnight.
Because it’s the streaming light beams of faces facing heaven,
Holding honors, hugging hopes, and grocery list in hand,
That makes me slip-move quietly through cracks in the sound barrier,
Unnoticed.
In the end, what it comes down to is a beauty so bizarre it makes me breathe backwards:
Hale-ex
Hail in vain, in names unmentioned-
Sidewalk-chalked sideways-
Frost-frozen Forget-Me-Nots.
In the end, it always comes down to this:
An open heart horrified, a warm kiss goodnight.