Super Moon

All day this sense of unease. Tears always on the verge of breaking, emotional walls no doubt softened by the arrival of those babies, the burgeoning life in the ground, and the way orphan puppy prances in the sunlight now even though no one gave her more than days. Unnamed feelings swirl through my innards and it is not until much later that I curl up in the privacy of my own room, in my own solitude, that words begin to form, labeling emotions and stowing them away in neatly organized compartments in my journal.

I needn't bore you with the details of what those emotions amounted to, the language they created. In the end, I suppose, it comes down to getting one's shit together. Take a deep breath, start over, get it right. Life is short, but we are never too old to do ourselves justice.

It seems like I should be fighting like hell.

On Domesticity

It occurred to me recently
that I am very close
to being but a year and a half from 30.
And though I realize that 30
is the new 20
it still scared the shit out of me.

Somewhere along the line
I promised myself
I'd have my life in order by then.
You know,
grown up,
gotten a job,
gotten back on the right track.

Tonight I contemplated the baby
growing in my dear friend's belly
and the ridiculous commercials
of homemaker women
whose lives seem composed
of lunch boxes
and air fresheners
and minivans

and I know I imagine that life
to be
so much simpler than it possibly could,
but God
some nights
it's awful tempting,
nonetheless.

On Sand

Beaches. Stretching into foreverness, beaches. Miles of sand, squeaky sand under my toes and we never reach the end of it. We pass by the beach with the lifeguards; it is crowded. We learn to read the rip tides and stay on our unprotected stretches in solitude. It will tug at you, but if you survive, you are glad you went there.

We move in to the only inhabitable restaurant and bar in town; when they try to close up, we try to order another bottle. We end up bringing it with us when it's too late to stay: how young the bartenders. This is youth; we are too old to do it over. Stepping lightly onto the beach in the dark, we bring our screw cork with us, and the light house in the distance guides us. Somebody has built a fire but we stay in the black ink of our corner, drinking dredges and filling our clothes with sand. Bruises appear on my body but laughter bubbles in my chest. How dark the night, how light the evening.

If I could stay in this alternate reality forever, perhaps I might. Perhaps I should have, when the chance was offered.

What I've learned so far, is it's never too late to take your chances. It's really only you, who stand in your way.

Twist

It rains. Tiny, slow droplets descend like tropical mist onto the trees, the house. Hours pass slowly, and still much too quickly. I think of returning to New York and dread the thought. How pleasant to linger in the dream. My skin tastes salty, sand and seaweed mingle in my hair.

I was giddier when I was younger. Am I too old for sparks and stardust, now?