i.

hands, bright like the sun,

painted in a frenzy of orange and gold,

beckon me closer, like a child intent on sharing a humble discovery,

to see what they contain

and I went, without expectation,

only to discover the source of life,

a blazing star cool to the touch,

but electric in my eyes

worn pages barely four years old

covered in the fingerprints of an eager explorer,

words well-loved, well-lived, well-learned,

the great Lady Disdain, bandying wits with he who is governed by only one,

unafraid of the power she possesses

I awoke, as if from a dream,

and remembered myself -

a girl from long ago whose own hands

protected secrets

ink in my veins, blood on the page -

no, not blood -

life -

the pulse of choice, maybe chance,

all change

to an orderly chaos

in the gaze of the Master

every book is left with blank pages

at the end

because the story does not really stop -

it continues with every step that we take

we stack the books in tilting columns

to hold up the story of our souls,

configure them into a staircase that we ascend

in order to climb atop the roof of conceived possibility

and gaze at the stars for a while

somewhere in the universe is a you-shaped hole,

the world in negative,

thrown into stark relief by the gray light

of a paper beacon

ii.

haloed by the warmth of blinding anticipation

with face painted up to distract,

to make the world forget for a moment

and rest in this suspension of reality,

I stand, alone and unafraid, in a crowd

of ghosts

whose lives are colored by the heavy pleats of blue velvet,

whose footsteps trace a pattern in the sturdy boards of oak

I observe their silent dance

with dark eyes and light spirit

I am a curator

of memories -

I pick and choose the story that will be told, the pages that will breathe new life

I paint the scenery as I see it,

I resolve -

restoring harmony to the spirit,

posing questions to the soul,

especially the ones you are afraid to answer -

I am

A mirror. A reflection of all the things you believe you are,

the things you want to be, the things

that may already be a part of you, but which you fear to see.

What is fear?

A name. The name.

The name we give to the truth we wish

to avoid,

the title we give to the scapegoat, the one we say is ravaged

by the disease of hatred, sick with self-love,

while we conveniently ignore the infection in our souls, the falseness in our bones,

but I am unafraid -

because I know that beneath this paper mask

is a heart that beats for truth -

and if I cannot be true to it,

the lights will fade

and even the ghosts will cease to be

iii.

every exit accounted for,

emergency plan in place,

and you are already on friendly terms with the stewardess -

her name is Andie -

as you feel the familiarly foreign rumble beneath you,

you realize you've not had the time -

or impetus -

to craft a will -

it is no bother,

the only things you would want to give

are not the kind that you can leave behind -

you glance out the window

and see the sweet solidity of the earth slip away,

and suddenly you exist on nothing but air -

well, air and fear -

air and fear and anxiety -

air and fear and anxiety and

you glance out the window

trying to remember

the proper way to put on an oxygen mask,

but your mind is stilled by the unexpected beauty

beyond the pane

the sky is glowing pink -

this is what it must feel like,

you think,

to wake as a bumblebee in the center of a rose

the whole cabin seems to be filled with the blushing blossoms,

and for a moment,

you are part of the sunset -

there is no fear, no roar of the engine,

only an ineffable lightness,

a budding joy

you are no gleam,

but a radiant star

traveling across the cosmos

to better and brighter things

the journey may be long,

but the life you will create at its end

will be worth far more than you can possibly imagine

iv.

losing consciousness of outer things,

I see only the space between us -

a chalice, formed by two silhouettes,

filled with every word we've ever spoken,

every thought left pulsating in the gap, the quiet interval,

the unavoidable lacuna -

and I wonder

if you can see it, too -

this bridge we have fashioned

out of casual banter

and bitter tears

and open hearts stitched onto the sleeves of our favorite sweaters -

sometimes, I loathe mine,

and tear it from my sleeve,

leaving only loose threads

and a painful hollowness behind my ribs

the first time, I patched the hole myself,

with embarrassment and regret

and a burning ache, an awareness

of my solitude

the second time, you offered your assistance,

but my only reply was a smile

that didn't quite reach the corners of my eyes

the third time, you didn't bother to ask -

you simply took up the thread and the needle

and began humming a song

unknown to me, but home to my soul

by the time you had finished

I scarcely knew myself

...

the color of the thread

did not match

the color of my shirt

and when I turned to ask you why

I saw that it had come from yours

and once again,

for the first time in my life,

I understood what it was

to love

another, myself, the world

...

I have found myself

between the pages of a book,

on a stage,

or a plane,

crossing,

somewhere along the way,

a river -

of time and choice and swirling doubts -

collecting pieces of a puzzle that I never want to finish

I have cried,

I have lost,

I have hoped,

I have worked,

I have laughed,

I have smiled,

I have loved,

I have come home, at last,

by way of you

and you

and all of you

only to find myself anew.

You always wonder how you got here.

Biologically, you know, but

ever since the moment you were born

thousands upon thousands of stories have been waiting

to be claimed by you -

though only one will ever be yours.

There are so many could-have-beens,

would-have-beens

and vividly imagined should-have-beens,

but all of that needs to be forgotten right now.

You are here.

There's no large red dot to accompany that statement,

but it's unnecessary, anyway -

You feel the stark awareness of

your own blurry existence

and imbibe the nectar of your mind's own reality -

But in all this there are

questions that have woven themselves

into the lacy patterns of your soul:

Who are you,

and how did this here

come to be yours?

You already have the answer.

You are those coat-hanger sculptures you used to make in kindergarten -

except the coat-hangers have morphed into solid steel

spun into a carefully crafted mess

displayed in a lush garden

with many paths

that people walk day after day to admire the glittering twists and curves of the cool metal

in the sun and the rain and the haze that settles over everything

when Mother Nature can't make up her mind what mood she is in -

Remember the stories you would write in third grade?

The ones about how you and the boy with the 72-pack of crayons -

complete with sharpener -

were simply meant to be?

It turns out you were right -

for a whole month, you sat side by side

basking in the gentle glow of perfect harmony -

until you broke the red crayon.

You might not be able to recall

the name of that particular shade,

but in your heart you can feel it:

Bittersweet.

Yes,

you were right -

except,

no one ever told you that meant to be

doesn't mean forever.

Think back to the day you started high school -

when you thought you knew everything,

well,

maybe not everything - you've never been that arrogant -

but you were sure of many things -

until you weren't -

Until you walked into class

and became physically ill

at the realization of all the

knowledge you lacked -

Until you walked out of that class

torn between

elation and despair

with scrawny embarrassment tugging at your sleeve,

begging for his share of attention, too.

You settled for a walk in the wrong direction -

the best decision you never knew you made.

Then, you were seventeen

and in love

with words and ideas

and life.

You constantly craved new additions

to your vocabulary,

taking the time to taste each syllable

until you found exactly

what you were never looking for but needed desperately

once its existence was made known.

You traveled through worlds hidden in the power

of suggestion -

constructed out of ink

and imagination

and necessity -

Sometimes, your green eyes got the best of you -

hunting for words, you gave your heart to

a foreign tongue,

and forced her to hand over her valuables,

words you wielded meanly

without ever knowing what

they really mean.

Today, you are older

and standing

at the base of a tall pine tree,

limbs stretching as wide as your imagination will allow -

You trace the eddying pattern of the bark

and wonder at its likeness to your fingerprints,

a swirling code that holds the secrets of your story,

some of which even you do not yet understand.

The wind carries you a hymn -

a tune you do not recognize sung by the voice

you know better than any other -

and so you climb

until your breathing is labored and

you are dizzy with a joyous disbelief.

You are here.

the sky's the limit?

the hell with the sky - 

I'm reaching for a heaven 

invisible to all but me.

it's something like a book,

if books were made of starlight

and sunshine 

woven together 

it's something like a quilt,

if quilts were fashioned 

from the sweet caress of a spring zephyr,

and the brisk kiss of a winter's gale

it's something like a hug,

if hugs thrust you past the outer reaches of conceived possibility

and cloaked you in the mystery of the universe

the sky's the limit?

i don't believe that for a second. 

I hear the whispered conversation of fire-ants, 

feel a bee's wing brush my cheek,

taste rain still in the clouds. 

My dream 

is no different from my reality,

except - 

I am strong.

I do not always speak,

but when I do

the words are

powerful - 

not forceful,

but expressive, and genuine, and me.

My reality

is no different from my dream,

except - 

no - 

even 

my strength.

If we never meet again,

remember - 

we met.

And in that meeting,

we changed.

Each of us added to the mosaic of the other's life

a tile,

or a stone,

or a small glittering something.

Perhaps,

we gave assurance,

or lent strength,

or inspired joy.

Maybe,

the worn red converse you let me borrow

were actually the golden Talaria,

carrying me swiftly toward my best tomorrow.

In a febrile haze,

you once called me 

Artemis, 

mistaking the moon's glow

for a halo,

believing that I would,

could,

protect you.

I promise I tried.

If I have not succeeded,

then I pray

I have at least helped you

transform the broken little

used-to-be's

into a work of art

as beautiful,

and competeless,

and authentic

as your soul.

I know you have made me an artist.

Did I return the favor? 

I have known many

with open eyes and closed hearts.

Prejudice and hatred and fear

make them blind.

You.

You are not like them.

You see with eyes

as clear as truth,

as bright as joy.

You color your life

by laughing,

and holding warm, rough hands 

familiar and strong,

by memorizing the rain's songs

tapped out in morse-code on your windowsill

or your head,

by creating vivid worlds made solely of words and dreams

and your persistence.

Perhaps the way you see is different,

and sometimes,

hard,

But it is no less beautiful.

Sorrow born of love was muse and mistress

While flesh and blood and tear were ink of choice;

Both nourished mirror trees to stand as witness

And give a ghostly life eternal voice.

Truth composed of dreams and wishful thinking

Tempered by the holy light of day 

Served as illness, tonic, and an inkling

That yearning one day soon would be allayed.  

Haunted by a future nonexistent,

He filled the interlude with actors glad;

As if through heart and hope persistent,

A mortal chain would link the two comrades.

Immortality proved an ample lodge;

A worthy home after such deep mileage.