I'll probably get tired of writing car wreck poems before I figure out what I really need to say.

Perhaps I had to lose the car
to rediscover the person I was
from the summer I had to walk everywhere I went.
Oklahoma sidewalks don't provide quite
the same scenery as cobblestone streets,

but in those days I was strong enough
to go for miles with everything I owned
upon the back that recently survived
a wreck that should have killed me.
I walked out with little more than

a few spots of blood on my shoulder
shaped like the islands where I found
myself alone and smiling.
Not quite the stigmata but
maybe no less powerful a mark.

Sometimes the gods sound like Arcade Fire

I read somewhere once that when a woman
writes you a poem, she spends time
with the gods on your behalf.
I didn’t really get it until we were sitting
in the restaurant
with ice cream and coffee
and you said, “Sit down and be honest.”

You listen with your face
while I talk with my hands
and it’s like your mouth is silently translating.
You may not catch every word,
but you still hold my gaze
while your cardboard cup
lets off steam.

Our trio needed late night
fast food on this day of all days:
one newly single,
one getting used to it and me, feeling like
I’m always moving somewhere
in between.
I guess it’s why I like to sit in the middle.

You do not understand why I need you
or how much—or I do not think
you do until you play a song
that sends the gods bursting through the speakers.
I feel them inside us and know
they’ll keep me up when I get
back to my apartment for the night.

Elegy for a First Car (take one)

[This little scribble has many edits in store. But I need to start somewhere, and I think the time has come.]

You were my father's decision.
I didn't think I'd like you much at first
because teenage stubbornness wanted me to make
these choices for myself.
But he liked your reputation for safety
and he knew me well back then.

You gave me a way out of the things
I didn't want--my hometown, my dorm life,
my endless store of feelings.
You took me where I needed to go
and brought me back when I was ready.

I wasn't always nice to you.
I made it difficult to maintain
a relationship when you seemed
to be the one to get all the bruises.
You always cleaned up nicely and came out
with a little more character than you had before.

You connected me consistently between
my first home and the second. We made
that drive so many times I thought that you
could do it on your own. I blew your ears
out with my music, but you never complained.

You dug a trench for me so I could crawl
my way out of the rubble. Before I knew it,
all I had left of you were the mud stains
on my jeans and the things I used to hang
from the mirror. They threw all your parts
inside you like a junk-shop heap.
I guess that's what you looked like to them.

I wasn't ready to lose you, but
I guess that didn't matter.
It was bound to happen eventually.
Still, I'd hoped to show you my third home
and share it with some friends. Losing you
has made things complicated, and all the more
painful that you will be replaced.

Perhaps I'm too sentimental, but no one
seems to understand how much you mattered.
I shared you with the most important people
in a very significant six-year span of my life,
pregnant with memories of new passengers
and others very familiar. I will not get
them back again.

I still need time to grieve you properly,
but posting this at the exact one-week anniversary
of when I think we lost you seems as good a start
as any. Consider this the beginning
of my way to say, "Goodbye, Jeep."

Two days after the accident.

I didn't think that I could cry
until I got the letter:
"Accepted to our MA program."
Too bad these tears weren't shed
for the reason they had hoped.

Hollow Shoes

Plastic high heels click
along the concrete,
echoing
the announcement
of this little diva
like trumpets.

It is time for dance class.
First ballet,
then tap.

The dress comes off,
the leotard comes out
and her mother
wonders who else
she will undress for
one day.

She will not be putting
her ordinary clothes
on again.

Instead, she’ll stuff her coat
with the plush puppy
she brought along,
because she likes
the company. She is now five
going on twenty.

And the Disney princess
heels will not fit
much longer.

Twitching Limbs

They were married altogether
for fifty-one years—or at least,
they would have been if she had made it
past Thanksgiving.

Instead, she went to sleep, and then
her limbs stopped twitching.
She did not go gently and
the night was hell for him.

The house was always full of flowers
but he asked mourners not to send any.
I think he used to keep them because
they always matched her eyes

when the lighting was just right.
He liked to dress her in pastels
and pinks too bright to keep her hidden.
They seemed to announce to the world

that here sat a woman who once walked
in living color and never needed
any oxygen tubes until now. Her last steps
were to the port-o-potty sitting

two feet from her chair. She often
slipped if he wasn’t watching.
If old age should burn, and
old age should rave,

he was left with rage enough
for both of them. His tears
were all the fiercer for how long
they had to wait.