thepoetsprayer

[thepoetsprayer]

I read poetry like the prayers I learned in second grade Sunday school, a rosary of heavenly words that I chant over and over til my voice scratches and my lips chap, my favorite book looking like the bible buried with my grandmother, with its yellowed pages and torn corners and the pen marks noting my favorite part (until every word is underlined messily). I read slowly and surely my lips savoring the lifesaving words as I close my eyes and give thanks to the poet my saviour. -what's a god to an english major | r.m.s.

[thepoetsprayer]

When I woke up on December 6, 2016 I did not believe in the afterlife. Or omens or "signs" or fate or anything you might hear promised in a priest's sermon or an L.A. wellness podcast.

Empiricism. I blame my slightly melancholy, resting-bitch-face-tinged life on my inability unwillingness to believe in what I cannot see.

But that doesn't explain the gray skies I walk beneath, winding through the parking lot as I speak to my mother after work. Something isn't right-- I decide it's the eerily warm weather, unsuitable for December.

Or the rain that soaks my white sweater and seeps through the soles of my favorite boots as I call her back that night, my back scratching the bricks in the wall as I slide to the ground and choke out a sob so strong it grates my lungs. I mean, can you really graduate college until you've broken down at the library?

Or the distant church bells that chime as I stand in the cemetery at my mother's side as I watch, helpless, as she prays and cries over her own mother's new grave. "Every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings," I whisper. It's her favorite movie; it doesn't make it better.

Or the sudden whiff of my grandmother's perfume-- unnamable, matronly, overpowering, bringing me back to Sunday masses and crowded kitchens-- as I stand in the back of a crowded Annapolis room, my heart racing fast enough to win the Preakness as I wait to prove my political proclivity.

Or the silver guardian angel my insurance company sent me last month, somehow salvaged from the sun visor of my totaled car.

Rationalism. Just because you can't see it doesn't mean it's not real.

-and i read about the afterlife | r.m.s.

[thepoetsprayer]

Our story unfolds like the summer dogwood outside my bedroom window: passion hanging heavier than the thick Maryland humidity, tension building ceaselessly until it breaks free in an afternoon storm. Your smile's more electric than lightning and the wind from the open windows of your car whips my hair against my cheeks until they sting. Tanned limbs stretch long, nestled in the grass, skin warmed by another late night spent together. You and I slip mindlessly into autumn habits: brusque voices and clipped words cooler than the air encompassing us, my temper growing shorter than the days. All the horrors of Halloween cannot possibly be scarier than the thought of a life without you. I try to salvage anything I can, to hold on to a few more days of warmth, but I know it won't be long until you leave me as crumpled as the leaves in the street. The gray skies of winter mirror my apathy, like the bitter air--dry as my eyes as the last drop hits the pavement. Bare branches reach out to me the way you never did. The fire upon which I had relied for far too long has finally died with no one left to add logs when it dulled. I shiver in my bed, wondering if it's from the cold or maybe just your absence. I add more blankets--it doesn't help. In the spring, I learn that sometimes cliches hold a certain amount of truth. The sun lights my skin again, reassuring me that the universe is still far from ending, breeze breathing life into a soul that had long since stopped caring. Second chances grow on frontyard trees and you reappear as suddenly and as stunningly as the daffodils surrounding my porch, so deeply rooted that they refuse to die. -vivaldian poetics | r.m.s.

[thepoetsprayer]

When I was twelve I read (in one of those send-this-to-ten-people and-your-crush-will-kiss-you kinda chain text messages) that if you dream about someone, it means they fell asleep thinking about you. I guess I took that rather literally because late at night when insomnia gets the better of me again I imagine your tan hands tickling my stomach your long legs tangling wih mine, fighting to fit on my twin XL mattress your breath soft in my ear, lulling me to sleep and your warm body, so close to mine that it sends shivers down my spine. I whisper your name over and over and over and over until I'm sure I've forced fate's hand this time. And when you star in my own dreams tonight I'll convince myself that you were thinking of me too. -promises read on my env2 | r.m.s.

[thepoetsprayer]

The driver's side window didn't work; you would constantly have to lean over across the passenger side to call my name. The air conditioning was broken too, making summer rides uncomfortable, to say the least. An old shade was stuck to one of the back windows, featuring a cartoon character from your childhood, while stickers boasting your status as an honor roll student plastered the rear. The cover of the gas tank had been torn off a few too many times and was now wedged shut crookedly, requiring both of us to wrench it open. The bumper was still dented after that time you rear-ended someone while waiting at a stoplight; you blamed it on the faulty brakes, but we both knew I had distracted you. The white paint was peeling off the hood, the left blinker was perpetually burnt out, and an old Kanye CD was stuck in the stereo. The stench of sweat was inescapable, along with the mud caked on the carpet from years of weekend soccer games. A wooden cross hung from the rearview mirror, soon to be joined by your graduation tassel. I used to tease you for failing your driving test solely because of your expired registration, but each time I passed an old white car broken down on the side of a country road, I held my breath, praying it wasn't you. You hated that car and were counting the days until you could afford a new one. But I loved every damaged inch of it. -the view from the passenger seat | r.m.s.