Interstate Lovesongs

Twenty something year old. Caught between the pull of the city lights and the love of time spent in dusty jeans on the farm. Artist. Rider. Part-time wild child. This is my photo-journal.

Sticky Bones


Back in high school

hospital gowns replaced prom dresses.

And the only recital my mom ever went to

was a funeral that took place on the stage of the hospital floor linoleum

for what I left behind in that wheelchair

when I took my second set of first steps

As the girl who lived.

                           -                     -

Ever since they carved me out of that car, well done;

just the way the world likes it,

I’ve apologized

for the storms in my eyes,

the way my leg bows in,

and how my head always tilts to the left, just enough

to keep me from standing proud.

                           -                     -

I’ll come to find solace in the salt of my eyes

and dream of the east coast during fall.

Its ten cent salt water taffy.

The beach where my father used to fly kites

high enough for the man-made wings to dance with the gulls.

And there I’ll blame the spray of the sea for my tear-burnt cheeks,

the taffy for my new, sticky bones,

and the sugar for the lump that’s been sitting in my throat

all these years.

                           -                     -

At the water’s edge, I’ll fly a kite made out of my hospital gowns

sewn with the stitches unwound from around the equator of my ribcage.

So that my sticky bones can remember

what weightlessness feels like;

So that my throat can cry with the gulls

long enough for it to say something other than

an apology for who I am now.