my snowshoe kept breaking

the shadows stretched long
across the fairway,
pink sunlight sculpted angels
in the snow in between the
doppelgangers of long and
bare winter branches,
like the angels he said are in
his head: caged next to demons
that he sets free
when he writes them down,
releasing them like birds
for the
world to see
or not see.
he says the same one
shows up in all his stories,
a fictional someone continually
trapped
in his head, no ink
able to proclaim her
emancipation.
avoiding questions of who
she could be, we
made small talk
about who we want
to be in twenty years and
clamped webs
to our feet and set out
marching through
the angels and shadows,
letting a dark wind clip our
cheeks as the setting sun
blurred the pink and black
into a January gray.

DLS

dreaming under sleepless nights

his stubborn

beard grew a little

in wintertime-

white on white,

like snow just starting

to fall on the sidewalk.

sometimes i wish we

could still dance,

or i could sit

on his big lap

when bored

at cocktail parties

in the days

of lacy socks under

patent leather

mary janes.

i still sleep in his

nighty when it's

cold out,

slip through the

silence of a

sleeping house

with faded stripes

down to my knees

to boil water

for chamomile

tea in bowl mugs

during sleepless

nights, floating

past snowed in window

sills lit up by

yellow street lamps.

sport was probably an

occasional insomniac

as well-

leaving empty, snoreless

space next to dear sally

to sit in his lean back

chair in the den,

and catch early morning

scores from the steelers

and overnight under

the table stock exchanges,

or maybe return to

his hand held yahtzee

or those trashy novels

he loved.

when i run from sleep

i sit with hands

on marble kitchen tops

and stare blankly

into my tea cup.

or lie in bed and

write down words

and call them poems

next to my humidifier,

her hum rising and falling

like a snore.

DLS

Driving Home From an Eclipse

Lucy is home from

China and we drank tea

that unfurled

like secret messages, talked

about entrepreneurship, roasted

garlic and then, huddled

in parkas, watched the

moon molded by

light until it seemed a

sphere hurtling happily

from outer space.

At 3:17 the moon turned

red to our firelight, just like the

stoplights on the drive home at 4,

telling no one to stop, no one

to go: no one but

me toying with ignoring

them, loving the driving where

roads wind black in your

rearview mirror. I don't need

him to drive around

late anymore, I

can do it myself with the music

a whisper and wonder that

anyone could ever be unhappy

when there are moons

to watch, frosty

fields, a perfect skeletal tree

under Orion's bright belt.

I journey round the curves of

the Bernardsville

mountain at a perfect

45 MPH, I kiss

my mother

goodnight, think

I am lucky and look at

the moon one more time, a

shadowed crescent, still

tangible.

CVP

Lunar Eclipse

Lightless, exposed,

the moon looks closer now.

And awkward, suspended there,

hung like an ornament, a trapped balloon.

Lifeless, in milky yellow,

sits the moon reduced to relativity:

the moon about the Earth, in lock-step,

like Eve to Adam.

No longer the warden of night,

the marker of months,

no Clair de Lune, no Moonlight Sonata,

but a hunk of rock—still, how spherical—

bound to us, and kept at arm’s length.

EWV

Dear Reader

Unseen now, it once meant,
highly esteemed or regarded,
of worth.

So we reinforce our days.
Good morning, 
Good afternoon.
These are commonplace and regular.

But think,
if we lived in a world,
the recitation reversed.
Empty day. Awful afternoon.
Meaningless existence.
Lousy night. Nightmares.
Worthless reader.

If they sometimes come too easily,
if they are habits,
they may still be daily proof
of a structure that urges the positive,
that insists upon it.
Small courtesies,
repetitions of the good.

CDL

12/12/2010

In anticipation of going home, I smelled roses

preparing for bed this night

Like my mother’s face cream

that I use, always, stealthily

And roses, which I love too,

in the bathtub

Gardenia-fragranced body cleanser

: another item of my theft

Gatsby smells like talcum powder

And my room smells red, always,

like skin that is soft and comfortable

But a little bit damp or musky

It hides in it so many snow globes

Old diaries from childhood

The butterfly that Brian made me

That flew when twisted tightly

the rubber band is cracked and

broken now, though

And it sits limpidly only as a reminder

of my nostalgia even before I grew

memories

Dad smells sour and smoky, like his cigars

and something more human

His hair is curly and mostly black but a few

wiry blades of white peak through these years

He always starts his stories with:

“What happened is”

Which makes me sad because of who

always noticed it

And we can’t invoke the past now

Sometimes, I’ll go down to the basement

Which smells cold, of fresh paint,

and an old mattress that sheltered secrets but is gone now

I pick out a bottle of wine

or dig up some relic from infancy

My rock collection

or

the story of the Chinese Siamese cat

When I was thirteen I made myself wings

of twigs from the forest

They were crushed from too tight packaging amongst other

objects

And I cannot tell a wayward stick now from the things

that birds coddle around their taut bellies

-BHN

an ode to the pandora christmas station

caroling pockets of sunshine on snow
chime bells on red hollied leaves
rosy cheeks, chapped lips,
furry hats and hearty laughs,
as children race through the night-
and my heart is younger
than yours,
you know.
i dream of snow
days in july;
of slipping under sheets of ice
and mattresses of snow
angels under laundry lines
of frozen flannel
nightgowns
and warm syrup dunked
marshmallows,
sitting by the fire
under heavy blankets with phrases of happy
christmas to all.
so be my joy
to the world, tonight, sip
hot chocolate
beneath dreams of an elf filled factory
in a candy cane forest
far away.
let's share
a silent night with inundating
organs and crunchy footsteps in snow,
running towards miracles and
wonderful lives of
dear, dear snowmen and women;
may they wear silk hats and dance
with us to jingling bells of horse
sleighs passing through this
deep wintry darkness,
only guided by long candlesticks
illuminating the silhouette of a petticoat pilgrimage
tiptoeing across frosty paths
to the beat of a young children's choir.

dls

This morning I drank a giant cup of coffee

This afternoon I drank a giant cup of coffee

Confusing time as transient

Ready to spend my day not living or working , unable to commit to either or both,

Resigned to non-splendor, an

unceremonious torpor.

Two giant coconut-covered mochi crawled into my mouth

They taste

a little bit

like

nothing:

plain, sweet, doughy,

with a treasure at the center: chopped peanuts and sesame seeds, honey and a pinch of salt

This oversaturation of energy left me feeling nauseous, determined never to eat again

Because food is just stuffing

For a piggy like me.

I am:

Wanting for lacking nothing,

Taking for hopes of rescinding.

There is no nourishment or substance beyond substance in you, mochi

There will be lots of visitors over Christmas:

I listen to “In Love, Not Limbo” and remember what it is to be a creature of love

I would like to be a particle

In a wave, an oscillation, maybe not streamlined, which isn’t really the nature of motion: it isn’t moving in a uniform direction but rather an amalgamation of me going a little bit this way and you a little bit that, and all of us ending up in the same place (together)

I fell in love with another creature at the coffee shop

He was dark and unkempt,

Wearing a knit sweater that was big and baggy like anyone else in town,

But he wasn’t much else like someone from this town.

….“agile and clever because …of the melancholy in his eyes”….

He spoke in an accent that was slow and thoughtful, scrawling and slanted, to a girl whose accent was bitterly squeaky

I read about Rasputin and Musa al-Sadr, transposing them with him,

Confounded by the absence of sides to a warped coin, enveloping polarity.

I became fond of unknowing.

When he stared it made me uneasy

But when he left I regretted not talking to him

There will be a time for remembering

Once I have gotten past this present stagnation and ineptitude

But it becomes tedious to live as a cataloguer of the past

Old melodies chafe

And when I succumb to our New Age Fun with a Vintage Feel,

It isn’t my vintage

So it doesn’t matter

(anymore)

-BHN

cream and sugar

because
limber lactose lullabies
of ice cream slipping
down elbows
with tongues to laughily
clean up this mess
spun circles in my mind's
eye last night,
weaving sugary
cream into a loom of jumbled
thoughts and words
until soft eyelids lit up
with dreams,
of santa
claus coming down
the chimney in my
dorm room
and the crooning voice
from my headphones
sitting on the desk chair
next to my bed with
a banjo
(last night
he dreamt the whole night
through and
woke with a head
full of song).
these uncertain realities
blend
like milk in my coffee,
slowly marbling dark
and light
into a lukewarm
caffeinated delight
that i morning-cuddle with,
softly coddling the ceramic
mug with
full palms,
smelling the rich
poisonous potion with deep
breaths and
soft eyes.

dls

Lights

There's a reindeer

in the courtyard!

Lights around pillars

and under eaves

wind through coat

flaps and maybe

tomorrow it will

snow! We can live

on cookies, right?

I think that would be

lovely. I also think

we should go

sledding. And

dancing. And a-

caroling!

Meanwhile

(can you interrupt your

own thoughts?), I

type

and think

and think

and think

hoping soon for

the soulful tremor

of that voice singing

Ohio, the warm

vibration of guitar

strings, the pure

shot of song

together sung.

CVP

hands

I remember long fingers around my waist, skinny and long, matching my ribs one for one, squeezing that pink skin white.
I remember goosebumps and grass stains when we snuck out of locked windows, where time was only kept by the dew on our backs.
I remember nuzzling in your neck, smelling where vertical veins meet collarbones, green apples on freshly baked bread.
I remember hands held running between trees, tripping over roots, finding the spot where it cleared to woodchips… a collapsed tree, a dance floor for two.
I remember the sound of jangling keys as we shushed each other’s laughs sneaking through illicit hallways and forgotten dressing rooms and dusty storage castles.
I remember mandolin strums on my voicemail, small tears on my pillow harmonizing those lovestruck lullabies.
I remember the first time you said you loved me. Mumbled it rather, into my hair as we lingered outside my door saying good night, and when I walked away, I kept wondering whether I had heard it right or not.
I remember the lone swing by the graveyard, where you pushed me with those long fingers, in silence at dusk.
I remember your laugh. You always laughed at me and I hated when you didn’t, when those long lashes went sad. When I would compromise so much.
I remember the first time I walked away from fingered ribs, a two-step, away, away from a mystery once lost and then found.
I remember remembering then, carpets in your arms, the unspoken words sputtering below, hands holding my wrists.
I remember the hand written notes after, of your sorrow and tales of your dreams, when you would wake with my name on your lips.
I remember sitting under the auditorium, saying to stop, it had to stop. It was enough. I couldn’t compromise anymore. As always you switched my words around. It’s still not enough, for you. You stay here. I’m always remembering and re-remembering you, and your scarily strong hands and my skippity, defenseless heart. It was too much. Just too much too soon, when we stopped being a couple of smitten kids frolicking in grassy fields and starting ruining each other's lives.

dls

I remember

I remember the first time you kissed my hand, mumbled and turned around

I remember the smell of the ocean that day, dried and polluted

I remember when you told me the first time, and I called you back

I remember when I found out the second time--I had been expecting it all along

I remember being alone, and feeling too big

I remember how many times I forgot

I remember how short it was, all those times

I remember the fringe of the car's ceiling, in the park with a receipt's ink filling my lungs

I remember your mother's words

I remember the park, on the first time I saw the name Harry Potter

I remember the time you stepped on me, and I on You

I remember the time I tried when you couldn't have said yes (but we've all forgotten that now)

I remember when I wanted to be a rapper, and you laughed

I remember when you said you knew me, and it wasn't enough

I remember when you wanted me to be taller

I remember when I stopped caring

I remember the Strokes, and the strokes

I remember wanting to kill you

I remember wanting to kill me

I remember the first time I hated my self

I remember learning your name

I remember your smell (all of you)

Assignment (a.k.a., procrastinate productively)

For my English 120 class, we had to write 21 sentences beginning "I remember." When we read them out loud in class, he had us cut it down to 12 or so. It was my favorite piece to write all year. Let's all do one!!!!

LOVE CVP

empanada de memoria (breakfast prose)

I remember the airport in January. For the first time, Dad didn’t come inside. He dropped me off at the curb and I shouldered my purple backpacker’s backpack and thought how strange it was, when I met Lauren at security, that we had never met before and were about to travel together. We ran into my neighbor at the food court. He gave me leftover Argentine pesos and told me it was an amazing fucking circus down there, had to be seen and experienced to be believed.

I remember the flight, the slight fear, Lauren’s life story and wondering where I was going, exactly, when we switched hemispheres.

I remember the Buenos Aires airport in the morning, bustle and sunshine and women selling perfume. We were just two in a boisterous line of kids with big backpacks, a parade of youth, a line of eagerly anticipated adventure.

I remember the cab ride in, the city materializing into slums and then skyscrapers and then Peru y Estados Unidos 866, a building sky blue and squat with a balcony and a courtyard.

I remember the cab ride out in April and it all looking different. The cab driver asked if I were going to study abroad in the U.S. “Sos argentina, no?” he asked. I like to believe he was being sincere, because all that dancing, all that mate' and que lindooo had seeped into my blood.

I remember on the plane ride home, I pretended I was Argentine, and refused to speak English, because no one says in English, que tus dias pasen hermosos, may your days pass beautifully.

I remember beauty of a tingly, sharp sort. Everyone says Buenos Aires is like a European city, but at dusk mystery made itself magic in street names like Mompox, Sarmiento, Teguchigalpa.

I remember trying to read Borges and not really liking it. But still all those streets with indigenous names, the only way I could describe their mystery was to say “it’s like Borges.” Labyrinths and jungles, no need for bug spray.

I remember we all started writing. All four of us had journals. Amos’s entries, the ones he read out loud, were the funniest, but I have a feeling most of them pulled at all the edges of his high school assumptions and thoughts. I think all that writing was a self-conscious effort—all of us looking for something, teetering on the edge of something, about to precipitate into something that might have been ourselves.

I remember the feeling I had the first time I walked around the city by myself—and all of a sudden I want to go back to those concrete blocks by MALBA, graffittied walls and the sun on my shoulders.

I remember the order of our playlists. We listened to a lot of GirlTalk in our apartment, but it's "Is This Love" and "I Shot the Sheriff" that sound most like the smell of the A/C, the stark sun outside, the meals of crackers and dulce de leche. The tubs of it—on our faces, on the computer, gone in a day.

I remember the day Lauren and Bo were out. Amos and I went to the covered market in San Telmo, duraznos and zanahoria and a million new words for me, to be weighed and carried home blue plastic bags. We were so happy when we thought we had made friends with the vegetable guy.

I remember we tasted chili peppers and spit them into garbage cans and our laughter had heat. When we got back, we chopped vegetables in that tiny kitchen and it seemed there was less space than before.

I remember the way the careful, quiet way he chopped cilantro.

I remember things that never happened. We kissed that afternoon while Lauren and Bo were out and then kept making guacamole and sangria and laughed secretly when they returned. Then what really happened was we danced, in April, returning to that moment when nothing actually happened, and wondering if maybe it did.

CVP