Don't Hold Your Breath

I find myself holding my breath when
I'm telling the truth
or waiting to hear it.
I brace myself for the cold smack,
the bullet between the eyes,
the belly taste in cheek from the fall.
It barrels toward me in slow motion.
Seems only safe to pause on the seam
of breath.

I find myself holding my breath when
beauty surrounds me.
Holding your child for the first time,
when the words come,
moments so tragically perfect you cradle them
as if they'll never grow old,
dancers on a subway platform twirling,
fluid and lucid.

I wish I could melt like that,
ripple and river and flow.
I am staccato, riot
breathing in pieces.
With an inhale--the crack.
With an exhale--the shatter.
I find myself holding my breath when I cannot decide
to hold on
or let go.

Pissing in the Mountains at Two O'clock in the Morning

       It’s 2am and you awaken to the realization that the piercing pain in your pelvis will easily translate into a urine-soaked sleeping bag if you don’t do something quick. So you fumble to find the flashlight you’ve left on top of the cubby next to you, but once your fingers make contact, the veil of sleep behind your eyes lifts and you gingerly place this lifeline between your teeth.

       

       You brace yourself for the stiff welcome of stinging cold as you peel the blanket on top of the sleeping bag back and emerge from your cocoon. You reach for the jacket you’ve left hanging on the edge of the bunk bed for just this occasion, and once you’ve slinked it on, you grasp the edges of the top bunk and begin the ascent down to civilization.

       

       “Next time I’ll come early,” you think as your clumsy feet struggle to find each rung “so I can snag a bottom bunk.”

       

       Finally you reach the gritty floor and very carefully slide your feet inside your tennis shoes. You don’t lace them up or anything—they are merely makeshift slippers for the night. You try to creep quietly to the door, which is really just an opening where a door would normally be covered with a sheet, but the gravel stuck beneath your shoes gives you up, and you crunch crunch crunch along until you can feel the cool mountain breeze tickling your nose.

       

       Off you go. You turn on your priceless flashlight and illuminate the pine needle path to the facilities. Not to the shed with the 10-foot (that’s only an estimation) hole in the ground, no, you’re taking the trek toward actual toilets. You nearly fall over a pinecone but regain composure as you are on an increasingly dire mission.

       

       You should feel afraid, what with the pitch black and the trees for hiding and aren’t there bears in the woods? But somehow you feel nothing but focused on your imminent relief and as pristine as the air your lungs strain to swallow.

       

       And have you ever seen so many stars?

IG: @dreamifications

MindFULLness

Buddhist monks are known for practicing walking meditation,

a state of constant mindfulness.

It is less known, but I also practice a constant state

of fear, walking anxiousness.

A child, a mother, a husband

depend on the sharpened needle

to thread arms for hugging, lips for smiling,

and a neck George casually called fat in Spanish class

for tilting back a chuckle.

She is strong.

Coffee shop nods and pillow gazes alike

ignore the blood diamonds

I’ve picked for along my thumbs.