To Tasha: Read. Edit. Comment. Love, Amber

What Some of Them Said

Three days not four I stood inbetween the door
The path
Strethching out so far before me.
Dark shadows leaning waiting for the sun to rise.

A death of liminality; I stand—
Entombed—
Walls of space lining the womb
I cannot escape from moving forward;
So I retreat
Missing the feat of life in death.

Stiff, I turn away, long before the ascent,
Silently marking my own descent.
Moving, marking the rite of passage
Between in
And
Out.

These deaths become a show
Popcorn littering the ground below.
A finger pointing out what you could have done
Had you actually shown up from day one.
Not day four.

Four days not three
The second in the three times three
Or perhaps the first,
But still a show.
And you, one day late, moving in slow,
Calm, methodical in your questions
Methodical in your words,
And I wonder—
What did you know?

The door, still there,
The path lined with air, which seeps
Into my lungs as I gasp and grasp
To form the question,
“What could be done?”
My voice tremors an accusation, trembles with emotional accommodation…

Ripples form waves spanning the ocean,
A single butterfly flap breaks into chaotic motion
And you waited one day more.

(---I am going to add something here)
I heard only the crunch of
Popcorned heels as I walked out
Scoffing at the --- that
Turned him from gone to more gone still.

If only I had waited one day more
The three makes four,
And seen the parfait of literal lines
Which make up this door.
If only the turning wasn’t accomplished on day 2.3.
If only lady lazarus had stuck around to see…
You crossing the threshold on day four, not three.

Yesterday

Yesterday a guy and his friend followed me out to my car and started shouting at me. I grew confused. Laura ordered me to open the door and find out what they wanted. I complied because I was still confused. I opened the door. The guy said, "I'm sorry, you were just too beautiful to let pass by, can I give you my number?" I turned and looked at Laura for direction. She said "No." I said "No." Poor boy. But I totally got hit on. And someone totally called me beautiful. I will go ahead and let that make my day like the sometimes high school girl I am...

Painted Desert Faces

As I rounded the curve leading me into Tucson, I realized something was not the same. Some thing, or many things, were very, very different. Starting, with the mountains. Here, the mountains look like faces. Personal profiles lining the night, looking up at the stars as I pass by and look at them. Here, the sky is painted regularly with reds, yellows, pinks, and oranges from what must be a very large bucket, and a very streaky brush. Here, the morning and night are marked by the magic hour, which here happens for two, and then fades into the sparkles of the sky. Here too, I am unknown. Unknown by the coyotes, crying like children into the night, or like bandits shouting out orders as they steal another dog. Here, I am completely unknown by the lady at the coffee shop I went to for the first time, jerking my car to the side when I saw it’s sign; and even more unknown by the room full of people that I won't recognize no matter how long I stare at the backs of their heads. Here, I am unknown to even the mountains, which insist on staring at the sky and not looking at me. Here, the dirt mixes with dust and rocks, and the green is a gray, and the green is pointed and prickly.
But, strangely enough, the new landscape, the new dust, the people and places that don’t recognize my name, are comforting. None of them know who I was three months ago, a year ago, even two weeks ago. They know nothing of my past, and all eagerly listen for a future, which I excitedly create with my words. Memories that I want to hold on to remain framed and written, and those I want to forget disappear like the frost in the morning. The painted desert is my untainted place, my blank canvas, and I started to paint again, adding new streaks day by day.