I have so many times wondered why I still call you friend, not best friend, not lover, not partner, not boyfriend or old boyfriend, or a man I once knew, or why I still call you anything at all.

I have convinced myself and one or two others (that grain of truth can be such an asset) that this is all thoughtful, logical, a contractual love and affection that works for the now.

And of course, it does, when my heart falls in with the dullness of my brain, and the barely scratching of numb and blind fingers is, for a moment, all that life need offer a woman stuffed full with empty boxes that begin in the cellar and overflow into every living and sleeping space of eternity, until all that boxed up emptiness is the fullness of her existence.

I remember times that cracked open into crisp cold sunshine, prompted by bursts of Yes, I Can, and up from the cellar, forged ahead by breaking through and breaking down, breaking, breaking the boxes– are they really only cardboard? Did I stomp them in my fury? Methodically open them and flatten them and neatly pile them up by the door? Did I forgive the box and welcome the emptiness? Did I welcome the box and forgive the emptiness?

Yes, yes, yes, and yes, and the world opened to light, let it in, let it in…

Since I have known you I have ignored so many things. The boxes in my cellar are spilling their emptiness over in piles and heaps and I cannot even stand to look at the ugly mess for a second. If there was once a beauty there, or for heaven’s sake just a certain orderliness, I have run it down, ripped it out, ravaged it and scavenged it in an attempt to find something … something better? ..and have left it to rot on the cold cement floor.

Oh, if you knew this of me, if you knew you would be hurt without even beginning to understand. The hurt is real, the usury that I have been accused of is true, it’s all true and it always has been. I wait, even hope for false goods, false gods - yes, they are – I know they are, and I pray that I won’t recognize them, that I’ll forget real beauty and grow accustomed to this game of pretending I want what I don’t, what I can’t even stomach, and oh, the game of being hurt because you cannot even offer me what I know I don’t want, but hate myself for wanting, begging, and accepting every little meager nothing you offer me again and again with a smile on my face as if it’s my duty to be as flat and lifeless as the very cardboard I beg to be released from.

I slip into this dead cocoon of waiting (longing?) for the nothingness you dangle in front of me, soothing and comforting you with my yes, it is so good of you to take me out to nice restaurants, what a lucky woman I am, I hold your hand and kiss you and make love to you when you say it’s just not a good idea for you to do any more for me, because we’ll get into a pattern, and I’ll never move myself out of this poverty if I don’t figure it out on my own.

And there I sit, in the very most bottom of my precious box of No, I Can’t …I sit with the empty weight of every reason that I find myself right here in this thoughtful, logical, contractual love that works for the now, every reason why I hate you and love you and beg you for more.

I am letting go
of the knight
in shining armor.
Even though my whole

life has been lived in
preparation for his
arrival, a song sung
to his greatness

and to my need for
his protection. I am
doing everything I
can to undo the conditioning;

the deep, deep need in my soul
for his strength, his prowess, and
almost more than anything else,
his undoing at the sight of me.

I catch myself again, again, again….
perhaps it’s a soldier,
maybe a CEO,
maybe even Barack Obama.

It’s the man whose strength
of character matches the beautiful
and sublime outline of his strong,
capable body. It’s the man who will

step in the way of any evil that
crosses my path. The man who
makes love to me with the strength
of tenderness - and above all,

a most amazing passion.
If he exists, this man…is
he happy in his role? Is it
really enough to exist only to

guide and protect his loved
ones? Does he long to be a loaf,
to not have the weight of the
good of the world rest on

his weary shoulders? Is he
sometimes afraid…more than
afraid….terrified? And in those
moments, who is his beloved?

Who comforts him and reassures
him that the darkness in his path
holds no power over his life?
Is she a woman merely

beautiful and submissive,
telling him only what he
believes he needs to hear?
Or is she like him in strength, in

prowess…enough to make him
whole and make him humble with
one glance?
It’s all a fantasy, I know.

All of it…the idea of a man
and a woman being more
than a bundle of hurt and
mixed up emotions…more

than a drive for physical and
sexual fulfillment….more
than the playing out of tired,
old stories, myths, fantasies,
fairy tales.

A Lonely Visitor

each breath
each word
a piece

of your
broken
heart

a
lonely
visitor

A Lover
A Friend
A Father
A Son

shadows
of your
soul

left behind
in your haste.

You will not
be returning

so I shall carry
these lonely
visitors

in the
altar of
my heart

I shall carry
these wandering
ghosts

dark-hearted
and despairing

precious and
close
I shall carry them

Sweet little sister

Sweet little sister,
you have wept enough.

The distance
Troubling
You most
Is not the distance
You feel
From others

From this man,
Or that man.
No, it is

The distance
You feel
From your own soul.

Listen to me, little sister.

Be strong.
Do not beg,
Do not plead,
Do not fear that
Your opportunity
For life with a beloved
Has been given to another.

Be still
And travel
To your depths.

Cross over.
Walk steadily.
Run for your life.

Do whatever
It is you feel
You must do,
But do it.

Please, please
Hear me when I say
The time has come
For you to greet yourself
With all the passion
And fire hot love
You can muster.

Be strong, little sister.
Be strong.

Abandon Hope

I am
abandoning hope

and living in
the knowing

this moment is
all I need