SPINELESS

Name your night I will find your favorite color in the sunset.

And I am not so mighty of a woman that
I could claim to cut a high
piece for your bedside
or keep any soft ray of it
in my hand safely, but I
would see you in this light for a moment:

let my eyes maze through its lines your lines
our lines, the cleanest shades of gray
pink lavender blue whale white falsetto,
wrapped around over under
its tired chest, and I will
memorize the sharp shape
of your face turned upward, the sky
smiling spineless on your gaze.

Untitled/I Ripped This Idea Off From Christy

He could live for weeks--months

on powdered gatorade and adrenaline.

I heard he built a truck, once, from the ground up,

out of things he found in the Pacific Northwest--

taught me how to drive a manual but my hands were too small

to grip the stick shift that was an evergreen or

ride out a clutch the size of Crater Lake.

I was frustrated but he read me my favorite story

for, like, the millionth time, sang me to sleep

and dreams of being a grown up.

Grayer now, weaver's hands, nurse's hands,

hands that built me a treehouse

move slower but, I suspect,

with more meaning--

weighted down by memories--

he finally begins his memoirs

but all I can read is

"Who says there are no heroes anymore?"