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.

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.

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.

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.

Sleep Talk

Danielle Walczak

 

My roommate said we have conversations in our sleep

I tuck my legs around themselves

curing my toes around the place where yours used to be

wishing my blankets emanated heat

in caves we were echoing from.

 

But that was years ago,

One week ago.

 

622-

Up stairs covered in car floor mats

we were grand gestures, guitar strings,

summer night cool.

I lied on my back the first time you kissed me

I knew it would happen.

Your lips were softer and smaller.

 

Stillwater-

Sumer stagnant water, sleeping

I didn’t drink coffee before I met you.

Cool is grass under a blanket

warmed by the sun.

The first time you breathed on my neck

you had creases on your red cheeks

 

622-

Winter, naked — you cracked a window.

Boots still by the door making puddles

socks on.

The room was big — space

between small.

We were contact, with eyes

with my fingers, your belly

was softer

than expected

The 3 p.m. sun was still melting icicles

we cuddled with our fur hats on

your belt stayed on the floor

 

305 B-

In the bottom of a bunk bed

we were a nest to mend broken pieces.

To protect against hair straightener-fires,

Bus crashes and most of all birds.

We were three invisible walls

one real.

We were arms that fell asleep holding the crack

together.

 

17-

We were running from a space heater switched off

to covers, down — like clouds — or

the first time I realized the sun is

warmer if you let it touch you.

It rises sooner in the winter

and closer.

You can’t sleep without a fan on.

Here I realize love is a person who smiles when they sleep

Love is pulling me closer when I’ve been awake for hours

Love is your pillow-hair always pointing north.

 

63-

We were closer but angrier

the small blue room had more edges and

you caressed mine as I brought out

my knife.

At night I was sharper

But the train and sun rattle by every morning

scaring me awake through a window we shared.

you pulled me closer.

 

95-

It’s another summer

you were heavy on my shoulder

a sleeping sweaty dog in the back seat.

You, nauseous but warm on my mind, worn out

like I had driven it a hundred times but

this felt different

like it always does.

And I wondered how much longer

you’d stay asleep for.

 

63-

A bigger room meant

A bed with new blankets and a dog was safer.

Lava-laden wooden floors

meant a barrier between us

and what I always wanted to be.

We opened the glow sticks — after two years it finally felt right .

It’s funny how open the heart is in crisis,

self-protection is a life jacket.

 

You were a boat.

Me, the water.

 

I hate putting this in the past tense.

 

As we sleep talked I wondered how, without sinking, we’d let each other

inside.