A Poem in Athens

I told myself that I would write a poem in Athens,
but for the life of me,
it is that when I am really struggling to do -
write a poem in Athens

I feel unworthy, like the cigarette butt
nudged between 2 corners of cobblestones
at the foot of the path to the acropolis.

I wonder if Athena knows it's there,
or did she do anything
to the chap who chose to litter
on the foot of her sacred temple,
the same temple that has protected Athens for all these years.

Or after the 100th time,
did she just give up?
How many cigarette butts
or slaps on women's asses
or racist comments
did she punish
before giving up.

Then maybe I am worthy for giving a hint of consideration
when even the locals don't seem to give a damn.

bzzzz

I despise that the swarm of gnats
in my brain only crave the
sticky
messy
sweetness of love
and that the bees in my hive
only make honey
when the queen bee feels adored
by her colony
so why can't I spin my own web
without a fly trapped inside
because I'm just as nourished by the taste of the rain

I want to weave my own quilt
but it must include the
unwanted scraps
of fabric left from my past
because right now I can't afford anything new

From him

I only feel safe in spaces where I am surrounded by women.

Not once would I ever question the nature
of the woman massaging my hands so tenderly
as she coats my nails in glossy, glittery polish.

Never would it cross my mind that her questions about my life
are anything more than a friendly chit-chat
to pass the time between guests.

No, there is an unspoken trust
because in the dark we both feel it
and "it" isn't from each other - it's from him.

Dear Dad

I wanted to be home for myself 

I was always waiting for you to come home

But you never did 

Or when you did you weren’t you

And then there were men that would

But they weren’t you

If you didn’t want to come home

The least you could have done was tell me

That it was still home

Even if you weren’t there 

But you never taught me that home is still home on my own 

even still

The way my eyes shift

Glazing over the products 

In a perfume shop

Somehow signals that I’m still heartbroken

Because maybe he can see that when

My eyes search for a scent

That I’m hoping maybe something about it

Will remind me of you

When I hear that song come on in a coffee shop

I can’t help but think of the day when we asked to hear Frank off of Houston

And maybe you still walk by that coffee shop some days

But you’ve probably found a way to rewrite those memories

Instead of thinking of me and the home that we were supposed to have made together

And it’s not necessarily a longing

Because I really am happy

But what am I supposed to think

When a total stranger can still tell

That something is broken inside

La Luna

To run beneath the light of day 

Keeps consistency beneath your feet

But to run under the light of darkness is a movement so variant that it is never completely your choice

Because the sun does not change his shape

He burns the Earth’s surface bringing life but only by means of the processes of labor 

He takes our water and replaces it with growth but you must learn to rehydrate on your own because he will never move to give you rain, only when the clouds are fast enough to gain a lead

But the moon,

She understands the complexity of relief

And that some days she needs to give her guiding glow

Even when we are tucked cozily in the comfort of her indigo blanket

And she also concedes that there are days

Where we would rather hide under her layers

Only feeling the pins and needles of the starlight that pitters and patters like rain falling on the windshield of a closed car

His heliocentric warmth paints my skin on summer days and cuts the biting winter air. He makes the water feel just a bit better and allows me to see just what is there for me to see.

But the moon,

She knows,

She knows that in the depth of her bounds we find solace in solitude and comfort in confusion and delight in disorientation

She shifts and shapes her shimmer to show us the shadows aren’t so shady at all

Even the insomniacs can turn to her in their restless roaming because she is reacting in hopes of returning them to relaxation 

The moon

She knows

almost

The sting of loss is like nettle - spreading
and attempts at removal do more harm than good
so we suffer

Loss - still something to which we can adapt if it's truly gone,
With loss, the road to recovery begins even if
the gate that opens it once held something so sacred,
now permanently closed...

But no one warns about almost loss,
That when it gets so close
The bruises on your forearm may fade
and your scars will glow white instead of pink
But the blood inside remembers
how fast the river flowed
when the gates were about to close

Knowing that the current can be controlled,
that maybe you have enough strength to keep it open,
but you don't care at the time
that you must give all that you have to keep it open

That's something you only realize after
After you reach the gate just in time
But no one else is there
so there you are, forever
the gatekeeper, trying to always keep it open