The wildflowers

The wildflowers from your wedding strain
from my windowsill to filtered sun.

They grow soft like hair from black soil,
roots contained in peanut butter jars.

You were braided together with rings,
sowing, even in summer, a new plot.

A conversion

My mother cried, my father frowned,
and the living room grew tense and full
like the Tolstoy I sheltered behind
as my brother admitted atheism.

Calgary customs

Calgary customs dissected my heart,
opening handwritten notes
collected in my wallet,

unpacking my clothes, and cycling
through photographs and phone
calls like a gossip.

I was whittled down to my marrow
and brother to a guitarist with
his pockets out too.

The empty airport exhaled when I,
like a stray, limped outside
in search of sanctuary.

White practice jerseys

White practice jerseys and shoulder pads outpaced my
lungs each season and I lagged heavyhearted.

So instead I learned the light patterns of my checkerboard
campus with a camera for companionship,

but black, knit flowers in hovering lace swathed
her dress and me—I never could breathe.

Open air

Grandpa made hot air balloons
from light bulbs and wire.

I imagined them sailing
through the kitchen window.

I too needed an escape
to fresher sky:

he with emphysema,
and I with asthma.

Bread and tea

The girl across the room
absentmindedly
put her arm between her legs,
held her thigh, leaned forward,
and laughed.

I took a bite of bread,
finished my tea,
and left.

Lighthearted #3

Cataloged in your history between your first move
and your last taste of espresso, my hardback volume
loses pages each month, and I thank the years for passing.

In the expanse of ruined neighborhoods, we had a laugh
at the peace we found a couple thousand miles
from our conflicts—the admitted relief of escape.

I thought the cosmos was born between a dashboard
and the rear windshield's heated lines,
but your condensation drawings dried in the summer.

I grew up the way you'd expect: with the stories
of strangers, with the sharp climate of new cities.
I heard a soldier tell of leaving his wife and family.

I heard myself reconstruct the past as it flickered
through the subway window. So I left it underground
and tasted the universe like I hadn't before.

Lighthearted #2

You woke when my car coughed, and
you tripped up the steps while I drove.
You said it's easier to have no hope
than to have two and choose.
You said it comes down to how
much gasoline I can afford.

I set you a place for dinner, and
I set a record for getting home.
I said the winter only comes rarely
and now it's ours to own.
I said there's room by the hearth,
where I burn my books for heat.

You said the best part of saving
is spending it all in the end.
You said the best part of staying up
is the orange morning light.
You broke an egg, broke the quiet
and said no more highway.

Lighthearted #1

After 25 ounces of 2009 wine,
you told me it's not healthy to drink
by yourself, so I opened a new one
to drink for us both.

When my eyes shut, you said,
"Don't bother coming home."
Half asleep, I said, "This is my house,
and we don't live together."

You said, "In the morning I'll be gone."
In the dark I laughed and said
"I know, but when you get off work
come see me again."

You slept, I hiccuped, and the rain
filled my car. I bit my tongue
to keep from singing
then I slept too.