It's always been

I came to be
a century
too late.
I want to be picking bugs out of my window screens
and turn back to lined papers,
and the date?
It would be 1910, when Frost taught in New Hampshire,
and empty rooms didn't make so much noise,
and silence didn't startle anyone.
I will not ruin dreams with any faults
but one; that they are dreams.
In the year twenty-ten, Spring has come back
The same spring, but a new one. Lending dreams
another fault, I couldn't hear the mud
and heavy trees with thick ankles like when...
a child is due. I was busy picking
the carpet beetles up with sheets of tape,
and thinking all about my 1910,
when moving bodies wouldn't phase me, when
I undistractedly would write my fill
surrounded by... surrounded by brethren.
I am in 1910.

***

I don't think that this can be understood by anyone but me. I tried to make it so that it could... I felt good writing it.

I Am Not Dead

...yet.

I think I figured something out about myself today.

Here's the equation-

I am a very busy person. I rarely have "free" time, and on busy days, I forget about what I want to do and do what I have to do, but I do things well. On the days where I have little to do, I can't not do something. One more time for clarity- I can't sit idly by. I will stay up until 2am even though I should really be catching up on sleep, just because I am being plain that day, and I can't stand going to bed before I've done something.

Here's my explanation-

I can't see a day go by without having accomplished something constructive, something I can save. I can save good memories, or bad memories, as long as they're significant, and those are accomplishments. I can save projects. I can save poems, or stories, or realizations. I can save learning, I can save a new vocabulary word, so long as I will never lose that day of my life. It wasn't wasted.

So the past couple days-

I have accomplished things, and things are the equivalents of poems.

i can spit all the metaphors you want; but in plain talk...

i hate it when you
look confused; now i'm
OUT OF THE RIGHT WORDS

What Kind of Enlightenment is This?

She's Moving Away

I bet you'll miss the way
one dogwood in your front yard blooms all at once,
with boughs of white flowers bumbling like their bees.

I bet you'll miss how your house casts geometry onto the Bermuda grass.
There's a UHaul shadow messing up the pattern.

The flowers don't whisper the same things they did when I met you.
Somehow, they mean the new baby now.

Will you miss me?
I can't compete with them, but I am a part of
this suburb you will soon stop calling home.

Letter One to Saint Thomas Aquinas

Context:

I seem to write letters a whole lot when I read dead people. I read a few traditional prayers at lunchtime today, in a biography of Saint Thomas Aquinas. Here's a prime example:

PRAYER FOR YOUR PURITY

Chosen lily of innocence, purest St. Thomas! to thee who didst preserve ever fair thy baptismal robe; to thee who, being girded by two angels [note: he got a miracle belt. Long story] didst become flesh! to thee do I pray to reccomend me to Jesus, the Immaculate Lamb, and to Mary, the Queen of Virgins, that I also, who seek to honor thee, may recieve the gift of thy purity; that thus imitating thee upon the earth, I may one day be crowned with thee, O great guardian of my purity, amongst the angels on Paradise.

TRANSLATION

St. Thomas, you led an awesome life! You were really the epitome of awesome! You did A, B, and C, and they were the coolest thing anybody has ever done! Hit me up! I know you got connections, with Jesus and Mary. All I'm trying to do is be as pure as you were in life, so that maybe I'll be as lucky as you are in death, up in Heaven and stuff. And, oh yeah, you're awesome.

Now, there's a lot of Catholic/Protestant backandforth about praying to saints. Don't take me as a spokesperson for my faith (although I guess I should be, says so in the Good Book) but I think it has more to do with asking the saints for help and guidance. I mean, they led inspiring lives. Praying is like thinking about them extra hard and telling them you want to live an equally inspiring life. A universal character trait in saints, though, is humility.

The Poem Proper Begins Now:

Dear Saint Thomas Aquinas;

I think this is the begining of a regular correspondence.

My first questionasks whether it

bothers you , those prayers calling you all-seeing

(which you may bell be) and "perfect",

whether do they bother you?

You want to rest your church on solid ground, so to

speak, looking up at the sky? I thought.

And it's more flattery, and memorized words taked

into pleas, than a prayer to you. I want to

change that in the Church if I have the

opportunity. Because I don't see you enjoying it,

(if I can be humble and say that at the

same time)

Like how on the dance team I'm always

the base, not because I'm too heavy but

because having someone who really doesn't like me

all that much

(I'm nice, she's nice, no worries)

be supporting

my weight. It makes me feel uncomfortable,

like that rock I'm supposed to be built on

has started crawling away. Is that how you feel

when the flatterers raise you up?

I understand your favorite mode

of communication is through prayer, staring at

a crucifix"Indeed, the finest book I knew was a crucifix"

This is mien. Please respond, though,

however you want.

-Emily

Pliny the Younger

Dear Mr. Younger-

In around 1000AD, during the Crusades,
a little girl got a package from her uncle
in the Orient.
There was
what he called
an orange
inside.

It was sweet, he told her. You peeled away the skin
and the inside split into wedges, he told her.
In that package was a rasin, a big rasin with
up-and-down creases like fjords and cwms.

That's my story, Mr. Younger. I know you were as little as me when you picked your fruit,
but the desert sun of time
and the postal service
has shriveled you up.
An old, two-thousand-year-old, man, came
in the mail, with a round painted globe under his crossed arms
where dead people usually hold throwaway wooden crosses.
His beard looked like a cumulonimbus cloud
on his ancient-mariner, this-voyage-took-forever face, I-don't-bother, face.

I am trying to get to the sweet juices
under the coulds;
i'm trying to get you.

Thank you for your time, Mr. Younger.

-Emily