Tell Me Every Other Thing

When the hollyhock sways in the breeze,

I always think a girl

with a flower in her hair

and no face

is walking by my window.

She tells me every other thing about herself,

half of where she goes.

And her blown pink kisses

that never reach my lips:

I can’t get enough of those.

Helium

I was happy as one

who offers her heart

and doesn’t care

if it’s accepted or not.

I was less, not more.

I skipped my stupid resentments

like stones across the river,

forgave those who walked off

while I was speaking,

owed me money,

blamed me for things I didn’t do.

If spirits could rise like helium,

then my spirits rose like helium.

I couldn’t tell my breath

from the new-mown grass,

the scent of the white azalea.

You said that I threw myself away.

You said that resistance

would have been nobler

than resignation. I began

to fear that you were right

for in the morning my heart was lighter

than air, but in the evening

I felt insolid and grew frantic.