Life, Poems, prose
Comments 2

Nothing More to Want


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I sit & watch the dawn creep
Through under the door
The tin roof flapping like a starved lark

Breathing air into a set of broken lungs
My hands stay warm around my glass
And I take notice: I am whole

There’ s nothing more to want,
& if that’s so, there’s nothing left.
I’ve escaped to towns that

No one comes from
Babies born on the road to
Unburdened mothers

It’s a half-handed happiness
To have nothing more to want
Laying on the floor of an empty

Room recalling a season spent
In a sleepy town, the cold
Lingers on your lashes

The skies taste of ponderosa pine
Press your fingers between the bark
& smell the vanilla

Snow catches in your ankles
As you stumble home
Dizzied by jewels in the sky

Maybe I will find myself stumbling
back there one day…
The thought fades & the tin roof

Slams again
The warm summer
Sits still like a promise

Yet whispered
Beetles fall from the
Cracks in the ceiling

Dogs bark as the 
Train passes through
There’s nothing more to want.

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Sometimes, when lying in my bed late at night or into the early morning I think of all the places I’ve lived, all the roads and cities and towns that my soul has occupied.

Sometimes I wake up thinking I’m somewhere else entirely, thinking it’s yesterday, or last week, or years ago. I’ll remember all too vividly living on the couch of that one bedroom house in the redwoods with the pot bellied stove, or the apartment that would shake out in Chicago every time the train passed.

Sometimes I wake up in that motor home with the neon stripes & cheerio-incrusted wallpaper.

Other times, when half asleep and awoken by voices in the kitchen I can hear my sister laughing. The past is something I perpetually live in, though I cannot bear to say it.

The sky is churning outside and the clouds are starting to swell. Life’s not bad right now, there really isn’t much more for me to want, say for maybe some sort of slight normality. I just find myself missing places, picking up my feet, scouring the broken paths, but the birds have eaten the bread crumbs long ago. I worry sometimes, that I won’t find my way back, that I’ll keep treading farther and farther away, but maybe, if I close my eyes real tight, I’ll wake up and be home.

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2 Comments

  1. Lindsey says

    I’m so happy I get to read more of your work. You truly are my favorite poet!

    Like

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