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Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 13, 2009 by 1writegirl


Curl up in my wings
For as long
As you need

I’ll cover you

I’ll make not a sound
I’ll guard against trespass
Surround you with downy embrace

I’ll block out the light
Tend to your wounds

With my body I’ll take on
The driving wind
With my soul the demons

I’ll fight for your reprieve

In the shadows of possibility
I’ll sway to the beat of your heart
Bearing only the weight of
A silver snake

Bartered for the price of
An unfettered moment
Guileless, ghostless and free

And when the inevitable happens
When fate takes me aside
Ordaining without preamble
My turn to come undone

When my fears slide greedily
Over the transom
In wraiths of
Perpetual motion

When I’m battered
Bruised, too weary
And you
Are the only place
Safe left for me

Curl me up in your wings
For as long
As I need

Curl me up and

Cover me

Warm Crevices

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , on August 22, 2009 by 1writegirl

She showers after work, puts on fresh clothes and a dash of perfume, and makes a pot of coffee. She casually crosses the street, two steaming cups in hand, something tucked under her arm, and walks up three sturdy two by fours with cinder blocks between them, makeshift stairs.

He comes home to find her on the top step, her back reclined against the RV door, with a novel in her hands and a notebook beside her which she picks up every few minutes and scribbles several lines in.

“Man, I’m beat,” he says and wipes his brow with the back of a grimy hand holding a baseball cap by the brim.

She looks up and smiles at him, and his face softens into a grin. She raises an eyebrow. “I’m lookin’ for a guy named Ernie Marinara,” she says, with the twang of a New Yawk accent. Her tone and demeanor are detached, as if they are strangers, belying a deepening intimacy they are both still getting used to. “Are you him, by any chance?”

He puts one foot onto the second step and bends down, leaning into it. “Who wansta know?” he replies.

“I got somethin’ for him, is all,” she says, in a breathy and suggestive Marilyn Monroe kind of voice. He laughs, and sinks heavily down beside her. The board makes a loud creaking sound as if in protest of their combined weight. She hands him a mug. “Coytesy of some dame across the street.”

He takes a swallow, then looks at her. “Nice dame,” he says. “And kinda cute. I seen her out walkin’ a time or two.”

She blushes faintly and grins, then he leans his shoulder into hers and says, “You think she might like me, or somethin?”

“Or somethin,’” she says, leaning gently into him.

He scratches his head and yawns, then stretches his tired, muscular legs out in front of him.

In the faint beginnings of dusk the slinky grey form of a neighbor’s cat springs out from behind a bush, then just as quickly darts off. In the distance, maybe three blocks away or so, a car screeches. A Pacific breeze dances around them, a seductive temptress bidding them release the tensions of the day, slide into the peace of the evening. In the warm crevice of space between their bodies, two hands reach out and find the other.

Unexpected Bonuses of Being Apart from the One You Love, And, What I Miss Most

Posted in Prose with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 29, 2009 by 1writegirl

On the Plus Side: Beneficial Byproducts of Separation

You get to lose weight, without even trying.

You have sudden bursts of energy, especially after you’ve just heard from him, which make you very productive indeed.

You now have time to do all those little mundane chores you put off doing while he was here, like defrosting the freezer, clipping your toenails, and organizing your car’s maintenance and repair records.

You remember that you had a life of your own before he came along, and you’ve got one still. I’ve always, without exception, taken care of myself, and I am not dependent on someone else for my happiness (this kind of self-talk, which I picked up through many fruitful visits to therapists over the years, can be very useful.)

You are forced to make a choice between falling victim to your insecurities, or trusting that voice inside of you which tells you that sometimes you have to let go of that which means the most to you. That doesn’t mean pretending your feelings don’t exist, it means not allowing them to be demanding. This is the same voice that popped up out of nowhere the first day we met, took one look at him and in bewildered awe, said, It’s Him. Yass, I do believe it’s really Him. You remind yourself he’s got a voice too, and from time to time it inspires him to write poems about you, poems that speak of hope. You trust yourself because you have to. You trust him, because your love isn’t worth much if you don’t.

On the Down Side: What I Miss Most

Cooking, shopping, and writing together.

Going for a walk, particularly after dark.

Going and getting lattés and cappuccinos in the morning, afternoon, whenever, just because it feels like a good time for coffee.


Hearing him say, “How come you’re so hot?”, “What do you see in me?” and “God, I love you.”

Just hanging out together.

Touching him.

His fingers in my hair.

Conversations with your best friend. About anything & everything. While eating breakfast or at two in the morning, with no barriers, walls, or secrets.

His kisses. Like manna from heaven, life-affirming. They are a language unto themselves.

I miss these two things from the deepest places within me.