break

i think about the day of our breaking up

so that it won't be a stinging slap of surprise.

i wonder when love ends, if it will feel

like i do before i fall,

that feeling of knowing 

i will land on the ground,

bruised and scraped

bloody and in pain.

a moment of slight terror,

of thinking, this is happening,

and i can't stop it,

of wondering, will it hurt less this time,

or more, or about the same?

how long, i ask,

before i can be closer to normal again,

how long,

before i won't constantly fear being hurt?

i imagine we'll be inside,

as the rain dashes against the windows,

sliding down and combining,

on a cold fall day,

or a windy winter night,

in an old warm room.

i wonder,

will you be the one crying,

and i the one holding?

(do you love me enough to cry?)

will there be a final first kiss

to end it all,

seal it off

and send it away

into the past?

we will realize

we needed each other

because we were tired of waiting,

because she wasn't careful,

and you were scared,

because he didn't know,

and i couldn't hold on.

because you tumbled into me,

and i let you,

because i fell 

and you caught me,

because we both thought it'd be nice,

having someone...

anyone?

not now.

i don't know when.

you didn't say.

i think i'm too much for you.

heavier than you want,

more of the nothing that you have,

excessive,

but something that you can have

until you find another.

love.

okay.

like.

okay.

nothing.

dislike.

yes.

hate.

yes.

i wonder if i am like you.

i wonder if i am what i think you are.

i wonder if you are what i think you are.

i wonder if you are what you think you are,

if i am what you think i am.

i don't know.

i don't know who i am.

i don't know what i want.

i imagine you and me without her,

but it could be that it will be

you and her

without me.

i wonder.

when?

lindsey.

i met her, and her brother,

elijah (i think), who cried

about daddy (who was going to come back,

soon, soon...soon) but stopped

short and restarted sporadically.

they wanted to play outside,

so we played,

on the slides,

in the sand,

swinging and hula hooping,

and tricycling.

she wanted me to push her 

when it was hard to pedal,

so i did, upon against the slight incline,

up to where the sidewalk ended,

where she rode herself down

to begin all over again.

on a fourth or fifth,

or maybe sixth or seventh (or more-th)

trip down, she asked me,

"are you married?"

and i thought, ha, what a funny question...

do i seem that old to her?

and i said, "no, i'm not...should i be?"

to which she responded,

"yes."

"i should?"

nod nod.

and i wondered why i should be,

and why i'm not,

and why on earth

i am so old...

i saw her father,

and i knew that it was almost time

for her to go.

i made her a scratch-art card

with her name on it,

and a yarn necklace

with two tones of blue

(her favorite color),

then i handed them to her,

and she looked confused.

she pointed to the card,

"what's that?" she asked,

and i wondered

if she knew how to read.

she was five.

and i assumed.

"it's your name," i said,

pointing to the letters

crossing diagonally down

from left to right across the card,

"isn't it?"

i made sure to peek at her name card

that her father held in his hands

moments before,

just in case i remembered it wrong

(i did, i thought it didn't have a "d").

she nodded, and took both offerings,

and returned to the showing of Shrek.

and when she left,

she came swiftly up to me,

who was sitting behind her on a chair,

and said a pronounced

"thank you"

and i smiled

but she'd turned away before she saw.

recipe

take an egg,

tap lightly,

crack into a medium hot pan

and cook to perfection,

season to taste,

and savor it while it lasts.

sometimes,

there is not enough care,

time or luck.

sometimes,

there are bad and rotten eggs.

sometimes,

there is too much force,

and shell fragments

tag along into the dish.

sometimes,

there is too much fire,

or too little,

too much salt

or not enough.

sometimes i burn my hand

or oil splatters on my face.

once it was perfect

until i dropped the pan

and lost my taste 

for sunny side ups.

june

is my name,

it is, it is,

my father said so.

my father said so,

he said so.

when you lend money,

don't expect a return.

when you give,

you don't always get.

when you give,

you give,

and they take.

my father

was right.

i never saw

the 65 cents again,

i've been short

2 dollars since 7th grade,

and lost

even more

in 11th.

after 12th, i learned

to give happily,

to smile

because they smiled

when they said

thanks.

so here.

i want you

to have it-

i can't keep it

anyway.

no problem,

you're welcome,

yeah yeah yeah.

any time.