Author: daniellewalczak

February Poem

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He feels rhythm in washing machines

Danielle Walczak

My flannel sheet never felt

thicker

than when you said you didn’t

want it between us.

[But let’s rewind].

 

Your first word was moon and

that was all I ever needed to know about you.

Starting an off-kilter metronome of sorts

rhythm is not in you but around

you find it in the quietest places

bringing it inside.

 

It’s February now and

Orion buckles us together

packed under blankets of snow.

 

Delicata dreams we’ll eat hash in the

morning.

Butter my toast

take a walk with me.

 

Now, the sun is out but setting

smoke stacks — heat illuminated by

clear cold

light, from buildings, from our mouths

from I.V.s, I am warmer with

you inside me.

“Let’s listen to that track again,”

maple syrup slow [snow]

you tell me appliances

play in B flat.

I am warmer with you inside me.

 

I am not leaving tomorrow but soon.

 

In a shadowy kitchen, near a constellation poster

I am burning, not allergic

sipping tea with both hands next to you.

 

I am not leaving tomorrow but soon.

Constellations move, more so do we.

So buckle us a notch closer

we can stick warm stones in our pockets,

carve DNA into the mountains

So they,

We can’t forget how to sing.

January Poem

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Copy Editing

 Danielle Walczak

for a good friend  

 

Laying down in the middle of the road at

3 a.m. is not always dangerous

but with you, it sometimes feels like it might be.

 

This won’t be everything about you, it can’t be.

 

You see it’s easy to write poems about nothing

but it’s hard to write poems about you.

 

You said, sometimes you feel like a caricature of yourself

but in a poem I try to discover your texture, architecture

structure of a soul shaped like a sculpture.

Carefully complex

words tattooed in a skin that’s not yours

inkjetted across a universe we’re not a part of

marked with the freckle behind your right ear,

when we match it’s always on Mondays.

 

You’re a binding stitched by needles

I have yet to bleed by.

 

This isn’t a competition but I hope you

realize it’s hard to the one who claps first.

If it’s a newspaper than why

does it feel like a book?

December Poem

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Balsam

Danielle Walczak  

 

My wish ring broke the other night

turquoise in the streetlight.

You gave the man five dollars and that was enough for him.

 

In carpeted brick bars and Alaskan day dreams

I am a dusty book

you, a candle

in a car at night you remind me of balsam.

 

Take that however you will.

 

Today we turned the heat on for the first time

It’s funny

how cold comes before the winter

and sun before

sleepy desires disappear.

 

In the morning sun

I am coffee-toned and autumn leaves

dreaming of hazy mountain tops.

 

Who was here first?

You? Me?

 

We follow a stream backwards

knowing the rain washes mountains to the sea.

Remember, when the trees shorten

to a magnolia skyline

the end of the tunnel is opened for

the wind to sweep us through.

 

Summits are not destinations and trails are not journeys.

Mountain is, and in it, there is enough.

 

It pertains to everything, if you let it.

 

Memories are pressed between tree rings.

On branches I want to be folded into a blanket with you

being kissed by the stars, which are closer from here.

 

listen

 

the leaves are applauding.

November Poem

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Rockland, Maine

Danielle Walczak

 

When the power goes you learn

pretty quickly where the candles are.

 

Everyone looks up

snow people become sources of strength

you find extra blankets.

 

Recently, I’ve noticed how hard it is to stand up straight

when no one is watching.

 

At night, winds become battle cries and I

shiver like the leafless branches clanging together

holding tight until the sun rises.

 

I am quiet in my triumphs.

 

I whisper my desires to the ocean rocks

jagged in structure but smooth to touch.

 

Loons approach the icy water as an escape

and this I cannot fathom.

 

Now, driving past 4 p.m. telephone posts look like ghosts

I wonder how many once were trees.

 

Knit me a hat and call me December

the wood is brittle and salty; the stars are bright if you

look in the right places.

 

The difference in color between branches and sky

is subtle, but I never was.

 

The jays are screaming

the conifers are within me.

 

In a few months the temperature will be the same but

we will drop our layers and dance in its warmth.

 

I want to open my ribcage so the world can jump in.

 

But this is a quiet poem, and so am I.

Another December Poem

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Kurt Cobain

 Danielle Walczak 

 

There are two poems about this

I’ll let you read this one.

 

Our taste buds are different

but when we kiss they combine

creating flavor I didn’t expect from you.

I didn’t expect this from you, but outside is turning

bright enough for shadows

soon it will be early.

 

Sing me Icelandic and Norah Jones

I’ll keep my socks on

write you a poem

unbutton my shirt

let you touch

places I haven’t opened in a while.

 

There is fear associated with assigning

metaphor to someone new.

But you’ve always been Balsam to me

you are stronger now, under snow blankets

 

I wake to you humming in your sleep, in-tune

a song caught between double-edged dream catchers

somewhere between universes ellipse

rock walls crumble for a second, and this I’ll hold on to.

 

6:30 a.m. is no time for making me up, making you,

making me, warm, permanence, making sense of being awake,

of Kurt Cobain. Humans intoxicated

on each other, or ever getting you out of my mind.

Breakfast Sandwiches

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Danielle Walczak 

 

Recently I’ve been sleeping on the other side of the bed to

move the sheets around.

 

Without you in it, it is easier to make in the morning.

 

I wake up, put on my slippers

put on my coffee and my armor

I put toothpaste on my toothbrush and on my teeth

I take you off and put on a jacket, pants

two shoes.

Mittens, so I can control what I let touch me.

 

They said the smell of almonds is associated with death

But all I can smell is your pumpkin spice candle

softening and curling open inside of me.

In the shower, I can feel you climbing in my pores and start singing

I am unable to wash you out.

If I didn’t know what death felt like

I think it would smell like this.

 

Sunny-side up and with too much salt.

Smell like road slush in a clean snowstorm

Like sex and like spearmint

tea. Like morning breath and sunflowers.

It’d smell like sticker mustaches and pink lemonade.

I’d want it to smell a lot like you.

 

I miss your breakfast sandwiches.

 

Radio silence is the worst kind of quiet

Anticipation of your guitar string sentiment

sediment, or fear

but my bed sheet

sea

is calmer with out you in it.