For what it's worth

“The waitress looks at my face/ as if it were a small tip.” –Stephen Dunn


The dropped dishes
shatter across her nerves
like the jangle of loose change
in her overcoat pocket.

“What am I worth?
Whatever pennies
you haven’t found a use for?
Pocket lint?
Gum wrappers?

Someone once
left me chocolate coins
for a tip.
He thought it was cute.

Tell me this:
will the twelve cents
left over
from the purchase of a lottery ticket
pay for the poems
I didn’t have time to write
and all they might’ve done?

You’ll go home
to your empty house
your ambivalent wife
your old dog
…and you’ll think
about how I smiled
when I poured your coffee.

Then you’ll know
that was the best part of your day

just like I did
when I grinned,
thanked you,
and pocketed your arrogance.”

Headlines

My little sister won’t look me in the eye.
She knows
she’s wearing too much makeup
and I know
telling her won’t help.

My mother sits next to the stove,
shaking her newspaper out
over weary feet.
She sighs,
and my eyes avoid the headlines.

There’s a strange sound
behind me in the dining room.
I turn, just a little.
The cat sits on the table
choking on the lily petals
fallen from the centerpiece.

The sound makes me sick.
My throat tight,
I want to ask-
“Who’s responsible?”

My mother turns a page
and stares at me
above the smeared newsprint.

Young Girl Abducted

“What, hun?”

3 Teens Killed in Car Accident

I can’t quite speak.

54 Lives Claimed in South American Earthquake

My voice is quiet.
Definitely quieter than those headlines.

“Who’s responsible?”


The cat gags again
and my mother looks confused.

“For what, dear?”

I can explain (revised)

It’s dark, quiet,
dusty warm
amid the ropes and curtains.
My bare feet are soothed
by the dirty boards beneath them.

Their voices echo
from the bright lights
filling the cavernous space before me
with clichés
and the old velvet surrounds me
holds me upright
as my vision blurs.

It is still, again
and I close my eyes against the dark, feeling
the shifting of your weight
on the boards beside me
through the bottoms of my toes.

I clear my throat
of stage-dust
and unspoken words.
My chest clenches
and my breath catches in a way
that has nothing to do
with the backstage heat
…and everything to do
with impending explanation.

“I know it; I know it all.
I won’t presume…
that is,
you should know
I’m grateful.

I mean,
what I’m trying to say
is that your laughter
brought back my hope for someday
and I know
you’ll never understand
how much this means
or why my lips tremble
during curtain call
…but I’m grateful.”

Your fingers extend,
brush past my arm:
the only explanation
I’m likely to get.

Things I'm saving for later

I remember

the special kind of cool

that you get in churches

in the summertime,

walking alone in the aisles

with my hair down

and feet bare.

I remember

lying under a bush

with strawberries and a book

with the cool moss

pressing designs

into the skin of my elbows.

I remember

the heat from the fire

on my shins

and the cold air

on my calves.

I would come inside,

face flushed,

smelling like wood smoke.

I remember

it’s beautiful,

and someday,

I’ll remember it for you.

Girl, Seventeen, American

Laying by the pool,

the hot cedar deck

floats heat waves

up through my beach towel

and I wonder

how long

until I’m medium-rare.

I know it’s silly

to see how long

I can lay still

before I get

that achy feeling in my stomach

that’s the human equivalent

of the turkey button popping up.

But I discovered something.

All the feminism

and self esteem in the world

never entirely erases

the images

of sleek, bronzed goddesses

slipping into crystal waters.

I may prefer to be intellectual,

but even intellectuals see Cosmo

in the grocery store checkout line.

Transition Period

Dirt roads,

windows down.

Hot air

blowing dust into

our teeth

our eyes

our hair.

We deserved

a summer of freedom,

or so everyone said.

We didn’t even

have to fight for it.

Unsupervised bonfires

movie nights

“Mom, I won’t be home ‘til late.”

I have no idea

how we got away with it

or how we got out of there alive.

Luminary

When I was in love with you

I was lit like Times Square.

If you brushed against me

the place glowed

for days,

making me look like a tramp

outside a cheap bar,

the dirty light

eaten by her polyester dress.

I wore your words around my wrist

like a cut-rate rosary bracelet,

all pale blue plastic

and tacky nylon cord.

I would lay in bed and wonder

if lightning bug are embarrassed

by how their butts light up

when they’re looking for a mate

…and if it’s at all like

how I’m embarrassed

that you can flick my smile

on and off

like a light switch.