On Flying

We stand up to begin the ordered shuffle through the gate. I scroll to my customary airplane boarding playlist (entitled "World Conquering" on Spotify), blast AC/DC through my earbuds and walk through the tunnel towards the plane as if it is one leading to my own personal arena. This is how I remind myself to be fearless when traveling alone. It always works.

There's a silently acknowledged etiquette to be silent, even in the sitting down and removing of jackets and replacing of laptops in overhead compartments. As of this moment, we are between worlds, not in them, and the hustle and bustle of our former and future lives has no place between the rows of oval windows.

For some reason, I always have the urge to cry the moment the front wheels lift and we are pulled into the sky from some invisible force above. Perhaps it is because this is when it hits me that in that moment, I am neither in the place from which I am coming, nor the one toward which I am traveling. I and the hundreds of people around me whose names and stories I do not know are in a world of our own, headed toward our own great mysteries for which none of us are prepared. I think this is always the first moment I realize I am never prepared. But for the next few hours, I am surrounded by people nothing like me and just like me, headed into the huge crisscrossed network of human stories, and for that time I am allowed to be alone and unprepared.

Minutes go by. Hours. Time slows and speeds up and slows again. I might stay curled forever in the cramped, quiet limbo of space between my armrests, my head and knees propped against the wall, songs passing mindlessly through my earbuds, fading in and out of sleep. But eventually, the gentle motion of the plane's descent reminds me how gravity sometimes feels like a mother softly shaking my shoulders, and I rise and fall on a lazy wave. I try to fight it, stay curled in my almost-comfortable position, but gradually the downward movements of the wave become less smooth, mixing with the dull roaring vibrations of the wheels opening and stretching toward our destination.

Our wheels collide with the rushing earth beneath us, bumping, and suddenly I am weightless, the forward inertia of the brakes lengthening my spine and pushing my body back to its upright and locked position. We glide into a gate. My eyes find the window next to me as the people around me begin to rustle back to life. In the distance, framed perfectly and shining against the black night, is the Capitol building.

Welcome home.

Forward

It is a big thing
to look failure in the eyes.
To not shove it away,
not cling to its arm,
just look it up and down
and say to it,
"I have to go now."

It is a hard thing
to raise your chin
and look the world
in the eyes again.
To keep taking the stairs
two at a time,
walk without clenching
your fists,
and to watch the world
come at you and say,
"Bring it.
I'm ready."

Because you have to,
you have to,
you have to,

even if you're not ready
at all.

"There Is No Why"

It's a terrible thing to be trusted
to be handed something that
doesn't belong
to you.

Because here's the thing about weakness
it doesn't care
that your heart is too big
for your hands
or how just how precious
is that thing
that person
you just shattered
on the tile.

The lioness of loneliness
will pounce regardless
and the fears you use
to prop open
your bedroom door at night
will tumble into the room,
snarling, as your willpower and secrets
fall from your arms
while you scramble to put them
back in their place.

Does there ever come a moment
where it is okay to let go?
Because honestly,
my shoulders are killing me
and I can't figure out
if I'm allowed to drop anything,
or whose fault it will be
when I do anyway.

So I will bite the whip,
sing through gritted teeth
and roar back at the thunder
that I do not fear the storm,
because I am already the storm.

Research Hours

We can curl our knees
towards us, tightly fitting
ourselves between bookcases
like puzzle pieces with sore
backs for infinite
cups of hot chocolate

but the conversations I remember
best will always be
the ones I have later,
with myself, bouncing
off the parallel walls
in hallways
that offer no answers
as to why I can't
just be brave

because it's the aftermath
that brings the epiphany,
the crunching icy remnants
of what-ifs
shouting that fine line
between bravery
and spontaneity,
and how I can't admit
that I lack the
thing I want most
to be,

since that would require
less thinking
and more doing-
its easier to accept
that reality
and my imagination
will never
be friends

First Snow

Sweater-wrapped palms
suppress breathy giggles
that bubble
from that place
I forgot was still
inside me
the place that doesn't
care that class
won't be canceled

the rough patch
in the middle of my
tongue is permanently
scorched from all
the times
I sipped too soon,
dunked my nose
into whipped cream
and sank my shoulders
into booths with
blissful sighs

so I tie the belt
on my coat with the
satisfying tug
of a secret agent,
feel the wind
bite my nose
and make it blush,
complain
with the rest
that my toes are numb,
and bury my palms
in my damp
sweater sleeves.

The Package Dilemma

Somewhere between
my out-loud conversations
with myself
on the way to class
and kicking off my shoes
in the middle of the forest
to dance wildly
under the trees
I realized
I have a bit of hard time
fitting into boxes.

For instance
I love theater,
yet I cannot stand Shakespeare
and somehow this burns within me
like a secret sin

I detest math
but love science
and aren't those a package deal?
it's like the way
I relish stories
but yawn through history classes

I need
the same friends
and old haunts
and cookie recipes
but too much stability bores me
and I crave adventure
at the drop of a hat

Maybe that's why
when I watch action movies
I can never decide
whether I want to be
the hero
or the damsel
because both sound pretty awesome,
if you ask me

And try as I might,
I can't find a category
to contain me
but the real trouble is-
I keep waiting for someone
else
to get it, because
I don't want to be the one
writing all this
about myself.

Omelet Fridays

There's something serendipitous
about the way I walk to breakfast
alone each morning,
the way the route never changes
but the scenery always does

and I never know
if a year from now
someone will look over
and notice
and wonder why

or will it just be me
and my meaningless
beautiful
rituals?

College Mornings, Sans Cat

It's hard to wake up
without the warm, furry solidity
of my cat under my arm and comforter
reminding me that mornings
are meant for snuggling,
not busyness.

But college is nothing
if not rushed,
so I hurry up and out
through lectures
and cans of soup
and a Granny Smith apple

Until I can retire again
to my comforter
and the pale glow
of moonlight
through the vertical blinds

When morning reappears,
I tug my arms into a sweater
to find brown and white cat hairs,
preemptively shed back in June,
reminding me again-
the best moments are never rushed.

Stranger Travels

"So Abigail, where are you from?"

I am from the lesser-known
The habited colonies of the nooks and crannies
From the mermaid lagoon on the Rappahanock River
The coral crags on the East China Sea
And cluttered passports
filled to the brim with layovers
the unplanned 12 hours in Shanghai
and airport orange chicken

Home is not a main street
and the same 3 best friends

My roads are thumbtack trails
across paper maps
my neighborhoods are various
Terminal A's
or E's
or C's
and places that say more
than people ever could

I have no space
or time
for wall murals
or gardens
or scrapbooks in the traditional sense

To see the adventures
I merely trace the scar on my thumb
twist my sun-bleached hair between my fingers
pick the scraped skin from the soles of my feet
the places where my skin has ripped, torn
and sewn itself together again

I run my fingertips over the stitches
on my heart
opened too many times
from the ripping-out of
forgotten friends

But higher education doesn't believe in Band-Aids,
do they?
Just study groups
rectangular tables
and the occasional kind soul
over a cup of chai

A Love Letter: From a Salt Shaker to a Sugar Jar

You keep saying how alike we are
and I have to admit, we both have
a pretty unique flavor
the party would be pretty boring
without us
I liven the bland
while you are everyone's favorite
the treat that even I
look forward to

So it's only fair to tell you
the bitter truth
before one of us ruins this mixture
because I keep waiting for the moment when
you'll figure it out

You'll realize that I'm only bearable
in measured amounts
I'm fine by the teaspoon
but a spoonful of me
is too much
and next to your resolute solidity
I feel full of holes

Sifted between each other's fingertips
sure, we look the same
but I can't keep on pretending
to be as wonderful as you
any longer

I can only hope
that when you get
a real taste
of who I am
you won't crinkle your nose

Meanwhile, I'll savor the idea
of you and me
the perfect blend
munching on
chocolate covered pretzels
together.

Meteor Shower

Directions: Press play. Then read while you listen. 


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My father's gentle hand
nudges me from my blanket hibernation
outside, the winter blackness
covers the mountains, as silent and sleepy
as my six-year old self

Half-dreaming, I stumble into a coat and a car
and when my father nudges me again,
we have stopped at a wide field
grassy hill sparkling faintly in the moonlight

The freezing night bites at my face when I jump
from the backseat
my sleepy whimpers are the only sounds
as we trudge up the grass
under the watchful silence of the dark

Then, my grandfather unrolls some thick blankets
hands me a thermos of hot chocolate
and tells me it will be any minute now

We all pile onto the blankets- flat on our backs,
my tiny shoulders wedged between the bulk
of my dad and grandpa-
for what feels like an hour,
silently staring up at the twinkling sky,
our breaths hanging above our heads
in frosty clouds,
waiting

Then, a thin streak of light at the corner of my vision
then another, above my forehead
another, to my left-
and the stars are awake
streaking across the blackness
flying to some unseen destination
their bright journey quicker
than my rapturous, darting eyes

We pass the thermos back and forth,
point at every streak of light,
trying to capture each one before it disappears
They tell me this won't happen again
for a thousand years
And so I make every wish I can think of 
marveling at the possibility
of them all coming true

After an hour, the light showers slow
and stop
leaving only the silent black curtain of the sky
now fringed with deep early morning blue
telling us the show is over
time to pack up our blankets
and stumble sleepily home

We will crawl back
into hibernation
just before the world wakes up,
rubbing the dreams we watched
streaking across the sky
from its eyes

Ode to Vegetables

It's never until I've seen the same things
from both miles
and inches away
that I realize
distance is relative

But there are a few things that a fluorescent screen cannot do
It cannot feel a heartbeat
nor whisper like a breeze
that tickles the hair at your temples
nor discern your breathing
and match it carefully
and it certainly can't
give you goosebumps
on only one side of your neck

But it carries other things
things too big and important
to fill inches with
so I think I'll have both

Fears Spawned From an Abstract Tumblr Photo

I think I'd like a pair of Oxfords.

Because when I've been cast out into the huge blue earth,
Alone on a raft
In a sea of term papers and 9am classes and liberal professors,
and I've got to do my own grocery shopping,

I think I'll prefer to get my apples and cucumbers from a farmer's market.

Because really, who doesn't prefer organic?

And so as I browse the produce in the soft 10:00am rays,
An iPhone in one hand and cloth satchel in the other,
And some lonely philosophy major student
With dark hair and a Bible in his back pocket
Is perusing the homemade jellies,
I don't want him to look over
And dismiss me as commonplace
Just because I'm wearing faded TOMS
Or NewBalance sneakers

You can tell something about a person by their shoes.
Not as much as you've heard, but some.

And a pair of Oxfords
Might be the thing that causes Mr. Right
To stop for a second longer
And wonder

I'd never want him to pass me over
Because of something as ordinary
As shoes

What I Wish To Be

She's got Rapunzel's hair
And Ariel's voice

Her face is a map 
With freckles for roadsigns

Fonts have been modeled
From her handwriting

Strangers admire her makeup
When she's not wearing any

When she stands, she is English nobility
When she walks, she is a Victoria's Secret model

Her necklace is lucky to be close enough
To smell her perfume

When Solomon wrote the 31st Proverb,
He was watching her from across the street. 

Some Thoughts About The Stranger In 4X

To Write A Poem For A Stranger

To write a poem for a stranger
Is to hand them your diary
It is giving them X-ray goggles

It is jumping off a cliff
Without checking for your parachute
It is painting a Siberian tiger
When all you've attempted are trees

It's handing them a briefcase with a million dollars
And hoping they don't give it away
It is ordering lunch in Paris
And hoping the waiter speaks English

This is the first time I've spoken to you
And I'm speaking a language
You may have never heard

You might be fluent
Or you might furrow your brow
And back away slowly
From me,
A foreigner.

From Me, a Toothbrush, To You, A Bicycle Tire

They told me that I was meant for the cleaner life

That you would drag me through the mud

They said that you would tread all over me

That they could see right through you

That you were full of hot air

That I would always be chasing

Always watching you disappear after sleeker models

That it would be a vicious cycle

But I know better

I know about your rough edges

And I have seen your perfect curves

And I will fit

Into whatever spaces you let me

If loving you means getting dirty

Bring on the grime

I will leave this porcelain home behind

I’m used to twice a day relationships

But with you, I’ll take all the time

And I know that we live in different worlds

And we’re always really busy

But in my dreams

You spin around me so fast

I always wake up dizzy

So, maybe one day

You’ll grow tired of the road

And roll on back to me

And when I blink my eyes into morning

Your smile will be the only one I see

(poem written by Sarah Kay) 

To the Thief of My Sleep,

If we could write each other's secrets onto pages,
and place those well-read journals back into each other's hands,
who would hold a thicker volume?

Anonymity

I want to become a girl with a different name. 

With social media, it can't really be that difficult.

I can create a tumblr account with a false persona, and voila. 

I can spend a few months filling it with things. 

And then it is only to type in a select few names and click "Follow". 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If I were someone else

someone you'd never seen

but felt

what would I be?

Would you be intrigued

would your heart warm

when you saw how much we're alike?

Without the visual inhibitors

of "real life"

what would you see?

Would you like it?

I don't know

if I would

or not

I'd hope you would

but of course

all you see

or rather, don't see

is what's "real"

The irony is

it's not real at all

But you'll never get

close enough

to know

Stumble and Plummet

Lord, my eyes are blinded
Your light, I've failed to find it
in constant darkness I reside
what I thought a lamp, merely pride

This fall ends in pain, alas
the bottom is self-shattered glass
as the edge bends and slopes
I cling to roots of high, fruitless hopes

My Own, a root that won't grip tight
my wisdom, naught- my labor, a mite
The World simply fills a broken cup
I, a mere human, hear "Look up"

Your hand, always present in distress
Lost in the torrent of my mess
Your will- greater than my circumstance
While mine is void of Your elegance

Though I grit teeth and leap out alone
I leap in the hopes it flings me home
whether You catch me or whether I fall
Your hand is regardless controlling it all

Though I wish for neon signs
I've yet to learn to walk blind
for clouds small as a man's hand
can bring rain to cover the land.

To The Stranger

Whenever I close my eyes and picture you
you're looking me right in the eyes
telling me that everything will be alright
because
you love me

Usually you have dark hair
because the Tall Dark Stranger
is the stereotype you embody
in my mind

But even though your mental image is
strong and quiet
I know you are funny
goofy, even
because you see humor in everything
the way I do

You like being a kid again
But take time to appreciate unnoticed beauty
Like the breeze That One Thursday
or the way the sun hits a branch
because your soul
is decades older than your body

There will be many a time
When you'll run up to me, panting
Red-faced and grinning from ear to ear
clutching your leather Bible
because you can't wait to show me
what God just showed you

And then we'll sit
and drink coffee
in a downtown cafe
and comb through scripture
enraptured by the new meanings
in verses we've read
a hundred times before

But every time this image surfaces
your face is always cloudy
your eyes are bright
but what color are they?

Do I know you now?
Did I pass you on the street yesterday?
Did I disregard you as an acquaintance?

Have I looked at you and wondered
what if?

Are you someone
destined for the same mystery college as I
that I'll meet one day in a writing class
someone brand new?

Who are you?
Where are you?

To know your name
your face
would be to disregard
everyone else

But here, now
I'll never know if
I'm wasting time?
Or will these stories will be told later
to our children?