Fragments of Happiness and Falling Prey to Social Constructions [4-28-23]

When I was a girl my bare feet would

follow along the lines my fingers traced on the mossy fence.

I would run, the horses would follow, galloping

as that was my intention in the first place:

to feel the ground move in my chest–knowing there was

something greater than me.

Clementines-in their juicy pouches-

I see sunshine and for a moment. Time is lost

I lose my awareness for anything but the fruit

and it’s presence. Here happiness exists. It is

only remembering time that makes me afraid again.

 

The first sun of spring, where the breeze

reminds you of those nights when you fall in love, not with him

but with the notion of life’s simplicity if you just let it-

He’s been dealing with some stuff lately and he misses you but is glad you’re

here in the sun. You’ve missed him too but you bask in the

knowing it’s not like that.

Your hair catches in his stubble.

He felt he knew her song

But the absence of the bird’s singing in the morning

left her heart quiet and

her voice cold for the approaching winter.

Summer came and she learned to open her mouth.

I’ve wanted something raw

you wouldn’t expect.

The other day I sat

and thought how the stress of living and all things combined have conglomerated

themselves in my inability to shit.

Happiness is not a feeling but a knowing.

Knowing you are entirely inadequate

But knowing you are a cog in the mountains’ revolving clouds

entirely engulfing you.  Knowing significance and insignificance

In one short, clean breath

What is your secret weapon?

Loving isn’t something I understand

although I say I do.

I want to love everyone

yet find myself—starved of independence

I’m attaching on to everything

no ones right.

 

In spring, night smells like winter fires dissipating.

Now we have sun to keep warm

this is the coldest time however.

Here I am the most alone but hopeful

Spring will teach me to be

warmer forgetting my

winding thoughts of how we

plant bombs in the soil and

water them, secretly hoping they’ll grow.

Attention finds me drunk.

Confused of what sober impulses hypothetically lead me to want:

slow dancing with a friend—but still having him.

Having him my way however

with a dancing shoulder at the level

of my dizzy head.