Elle Wonders

Palindrome

He was staring out the window
waiting for me to come home.
“Your name is like a pair
of book ends,” he tells me,
when I walk through the front door.
How so? I ask.
“It holds me upright.”

I laid down next to him
and we waited for hope to arrive.
“How do you feel?” he asks,
when I lay my head on his chest.
Like the inside of a seashell, I say.
He strokes my hair
and nods in agreement.

We watch as shadows play
on the wall, wordless,
because our hearts speak
even when we’re not talking.
As the tips of the sunset
disappear below the horizon,
our eyes close
and the dove outside the window
stops calling to us.

©Elle Wonders 2017

August 21, 2017 0

Songs of Searching

Walk me through a field of sweetgrass,
and I’ll bring back the days we passed.
Sing to me when doves are cooing,
so I’ll turn around and understand.
Carry me through a summer’s twilight,
and I’ll show you the stars that shine.
Remind me how our moonbeams dance,
and we’ll try again, we’ll leave tonight.
If you lead me down the river delta,
we’ll find our way on the tree lined path.
The wind will carry our songs of searching,
and we’ll mark the place upon our map.

©Elle Wonders 2017

August 21, 2017 0

The Responsibility of Ruffles

When he woke,

I wasn’t next to him.

I had slipped downstairs

to the library,

where the warm

August air

still clung to the flaxen weave

of my reading chair.

When he asked why

I was awake so early,

I held up

the century-old book

with the blue

sapphire cover.

I told him the story

of how it was given to me

by a stranger,

in a castle

in Northern England.

Of how it was a brick

in a low wall of books

that twisted and turned

around a honey stone hearth,

in the great hall.

Of how the keeper,

upon learning that

my name

was on the cover,

told me to take the book

home with me —

just slip it into my bag,

and consider it a gift.

“It won’t be missed,”

he assured me.

“Please take it.”

The two of us were alone

in the castle, so I did.

And I had a new responsibility.

The responsibility of ruffles.

©Elle Wonders 2017

August 21, 2017 0

Chief

The last time I saw him was on CNN.
He was standing next to his aircraft,
wearing a khaki green flight suit,
trying to seem modest as the reporter
discussed his recent mission.
As if his record wasn’t impressive.
As if he could handle anything less
than perfection.

He looked invincible.
As if the scar on his cheek
wasn’t from a bullet
that barely missed his brain.
As if his Kiowa hadn’t been shot down.
As if he hadn’t skirted classified intel
when he sat in a café and recounted the story
between bites of crème brûlée.

His voice was confident.
He spoke as if he didn’t love war —
as if he hadn’t requested another tour.
As if he remembered how to be a civilian,
and still capable of vulnerability.
As if he knew how to be there for me
the one time I asked for a favor.
An important favor.
Something he did for a goddamn living.

“I’m not going to sit in two hours of traffic
to drive down from base on a Sunday,”
he told me, oblivious to my distress.
He sounded as if traffic was as stressful as flying.
As if he thought I wasn’t capable of walking away.
As if I needed him as much as he needed me
to be his beacon.

The desert terrain looked as barren as his heart.
But he was handsome, and the reporter was charmed.
When he took off his helmet and smiled,
I almost missed him.
As if I had forgotten everything I just told you.
As if he cared at all about my well-being.
As if there was anything left to miss.

©Elle Wonders 2017

April 30, 2017 0

The Last Goodbye

If we ever break up,
let’s promise right now
to give each other
one last night,
I tell him.
One last goodbye.
But when the day arrives
the promise fades
into our vacant eyes
and shattered stances.

Countless months later,
when I finally find the lever
hidden amongst the tocsin,
I receive a text.
“Do you remember
our last night together —
the one we never had?”
It’s been nearly two years,
I tell him.
“I know,” he says.
“I just can’t stop thinking
about that last goodbye.”

©Elle Wonders 2017

April 30, 2017 0

Sauveour

I cup my hand

over the starkness

of my right breast.

Like an inverse

pledge of allegiance,

I swear fidelity

to the ruined,

and try to hold

the pain

within my palm.

When asked,

I refuse help.

I don’t want them

to see the salt lines

of my disgrace —

the shame

of letting you

wrench the chaos

from where

I’ve kept it

hidden

for decades.

The shame

of letting you

uncork the bottle

that I’ve kept

sealed

with bits of wax

and twine.

The shame

of letting you

pour that shit

everywhere.

Dousing me

with my own

lighter fluid,

and watching,

eyes lit,

as the flames

lick my sanity.

When the ash

settles

you tell me

your intentions

were good.

You were only

trying to save me

from the fire.

©Elle Wonders 2017

April 13, 2017 0

Thirteen

I chase after him
on the steep hill
of the fortress,
but he deftly
slips through
my fingertips
like he slipped
through his final
year of boyhood.

I reach out,
catch the hood
of his jacket,
and laugh
with triumph
as I hug tight
my only child,
until he finally
stands with me,
side by side.

Just before
the shutter is
released,
I drape my arm
casually
around his neck,
as if I wasn’t
holding on to him
for dear life.

©Elle Wonders 2017

March 31, 2017 0

Tortugita

Do you remember
the day we went
swamping
in the Louisiana bayou
and I spotted
the tiny dead turtle
on the bank of the river?
We wandered down
to the shoreline,
under a canopy
of tendrilled
Spanish moss,
and I found her
lying helpless
on her back,
swaying in the cool
shallow water.
When I saw the
broken state of her
once beautiful shell,
I knew it was
a sign
of the break in me
that was to come.

©Elle Wonders 2017

March 31, 2017 2

What He Brings

“Does your husband
ever bring you flowers?”
she asks while fussing
with a large bouquet
of cliché red buds.

“He brings me frogs,”
I answer, trying hard
to not sound smug.
“Each time he mows
the summer lawn,
he’ll catch me a little
tree frog. He holds it
in the palm of his hand
and we laugh as it slowly
climbs up his arm and
across his back before
leaping into the fresh cut
grass.”

Glancing at her roses,
she looks crestfallen
and whispers that her
husband never brings
her frogs.

©Elle Wonders 2017

March 29, 2017 0

The Quiet

When I can’t

get out of bed

he brings me tea

and sits on the edge

of the mattress,

sharing with me

his quiet,

as he strokes

my hair

and looks at me

with every

good word

I’ve ever heard.

©Elle Wonders 2017

March 29, 2017 2

Half Finished

I know some fields that need walking —
land that will set me free.

I know some paths that need wandering —
roads that I’ve meant to see.

I know some words that need speaking —
thoughts that I wish you knew.

There’s still some life that needs living —
years I want to spend with you.

©Elle Wonders 2017

March 29, 2017 0

Bliss

After work
he sits
on the couch
and thinks
about bliss.
He writes
in his notebook
the things
he mustn’t forget,
then grabs the leash
and steps through
the twilight.

Bliss follows him
into the night,
matching his stride,
shoulder
to shoulder,
fingertips touching,
as a fawn
colored dog
trots up ahead,
leading the way.

He stops
when they reach
the water tower.
He puts his hand
on his chest pocket,
feels his heart move,
and knows
she’s there with him.
Where did you
come from?
he asks.
Bliss smiles
and tells him
she was born
just back there,
in the doorway.

The dark clouds
roll in
and he snaps
a photograph
of them standing
in front
of the tower
emblazoned
with her name.
Come my way,
he tells her,
and together
they walk home
catching raindrops
with their tears.

©Elle Wonders 2017

March 28, 2017 0

Dots

She asks me
how I am
and I tell her
I’m afraid of dying –
of becoming
a dot without
memory
or consequence.
I blot my eyes
with a wet
paper towel
and she assures me
that many people
find comfort
in being a dot.
Dots can rest
and not be judged
and don’t feel
lonely.
I still don’t want
to be a dot
I tell her
and then we talk
about her trip
to Mexico
and how she went
horseback riding
on the beach
like a tourist,
which is good
because yesterday
she found a lump
and feels too tired
to contest being
a dot.

©Elle Wonders 2017

March 25, 2017 2

Two Mile Road

On our way down
to little bay
we stumble upon
an unlit dirt road
as black
as a bottle of pitch.

When we see
the sleeping
farm houses
safely tucked away
in the tall fields
we stop fighting
and surrender
to the sea air
as it moves in
to claim us.

From your lap
I tilt my head back
to see Jupiter
watching
as your skin
touches mine,
and I prepare
for our ascension
into the stars.

©Elle Wonders 2017

March 24, 2017 0

A Map of My Existence

As I laid
on the exam table,
the diagnostic
wand
slid over
the thick coating
of gel
on my neck.
As she captured
image
after image
I stared
at the patterned
ceiling tiles
as if they were
a map
of my existence,
and imagined
how it might feel
to fade away
into a darkness
and cease
to exist.

When it was over
and we were
alone
in the room,
I dried my tears
and told you
“For the first time
in my life
I finally
understand
the will to live.”

You then
drove me home
in the rain
stopping
only briefly
to pick up
a small
white paper bag
of indica.

©Elle Wonders 2017

March 22, 2017 2

Stay

When he said

“Stay with me”

last week,

he meant

please don’t

disappear

from his life.

When he said

“Stay with me”

last night,

he meant

please don’t

disappear

from this world.

©Elle Wonders 2017

March 22, 2017 0

Wolde

When you asked me
If I would follow you,
I didn’t know
you would take me
to a place
where words
would flow
like the Mississippi
and cross
just as many
state lines.

I didn’t know
You would build
a bonfire
of nurture
and proclivity
and burn a clearing
big enough
for me
to run around in.

I didn’t know
you would
harness energy
like a plough horse
and cut
through the earth,
overturning it,
exposing the roots
of my mind.

©Elle Wonders 2017

March 20, 2017 0

Ice Cream

I smiled

when I saw him.

Like I had been waiting

in line for ice cream

and it was finally

my turn.

©Elle Wonders 2017

March 19, 2017 0

Two Weeks

“I fell in love with you

the first day we met,”

he told me

as we crawled into bed.

The very first day?

You’re sure?

“Yes, but I had to

wait two weeks

to tell you.”

Why is that?

“Because otherwise you

would think I was just like

the rest.”

March 19, 2017 0

Old Blue

Sultry is the night
in a polka dot dress.
Fingers trail
cool waters
as we glide south
on our backs
gazing at comets.

Your hands, wet
from Old Blue,
roam the curve
of the land
to my ankle.
There’s laughter.
Soft. Anxious.
Was it mine?

The coat of night
stuck to your skin
feels fine.
“Your hair —
it smells of peaches,”
you whisper.
Or maybe
it’s just Georgia
waving her sweet
goodbye.

Water laps over
the edge of our raft
and lulls us.
Your hand glides
up my smooth calf
crossing my knee.
Deliberate.
Careful.
A shy laugh blends
with a bashful smile.
Eyes lock under
the illumination
of a low hanging sky.

Soft supple lips
so close
seeking moisture
despite the damp air.
Noses touch.
A biting lip
betrays the moment.
Your hand stops
to brush peach locks
behind my ear,
then once again
returns to its perch
on my ankle.
Good betrayal.
Knowing betrayal.
A necessary betrayal
under the umbrella
of darkness.

And there you are.
I see you now.
“I’m just a guy on a raft,”
you tell me,
as we drift with the current.
But what were you
before this?
“I don’t even remember.”

March 19, 2017 0

He Sounds

A bit rough
but heart felt.
Unruled
by composure
and delicacy,
awakening
comes easily,
before all else,
and fills him
with a raw
yearning
that won’t
be driven out
by the wind.
There’s a bit
of twang,
a bit of Kansas,
and lots of life.

March 19, 2017 0

lowercase m

An out of place m

is a signpost

telling you

that the person

is far angrier

than they claim,

so be sure

not to listen

when they tell you

how they actually feel

if they start

their sentence

with a lowercase

March 18, 2017 0

Words

They are stones
pouring
from a crofter’s
wheelbarrow –
piling up
one after another
building a shelter
to house a lifetime
of wonder.

They are the whir
of a one-cylinder
engine
fueled by a hunger
to propel us
forward
to a place
not yet known.

They are the pluck
of a string
held taut
between us,
the echo in a glen
of never-ending sky,
and the softness
of a beating heart
that yearns
for this life.

March 18, 2017 0

Swell

When he told me

about the summer

he was eight years old

and why every evening

he was sent to bed

in the stuffy light of day

lying there alone

listening to the children

who still ran free in the street,

I crawled on top of him

rested my head on his chest

and my hips between his thighs

and we sobbed

until our salt swollen eyes

closed against the night

and every harm

he hadn’t yet told me.

March 17, 2017 0

Spare Time

If you had extra years

would you spend them

with me?

We could close the gap

from across the sea.

Just think how we’d fill

our nights and days,

in that cottage we’d buy

to hide away.

We’d go down the pub

and run amok.

Then happily walk home

Just drunk as fuck.

In case you have time

you should think it through.

Because if I had extra years

I’d spend them with you.

March 14, 2017 2

The Weight of It

With eyes still

closed

he lays his head

on my chest

and the weight of it

pins me in truth.

“I’m trying to find your heart”

he says.

You probably won’t.

It’s buried deep.

“I found it once before,

you know.”

I know.

But I don’t

keep it

in the same place

anymore.

March 14, 2017 0

Crossroads

When my son asked
“Would you sell
your soul to the
devil
if it meant
you would be
the best drummer
in the world?”
I told him
“No, but I would
if it meant
I would always
be with you.”

March 13, 2017 2

The Tempest

We get in your truck
and you drive me
through
a long-ago tempest.
Back through time
to all the hours
and all the roads
where your
hope
met despair.

You point to a sky
of flaxen wheat
and draw me
a memory
until it comes alive,
then together
we watch
as it gets up and leaves.

March 13, 2017 0

When He Tells You

“You will hear from me lass,
whenever I am awake.
Forever.
Until the end of time.”
He might just mean six months.

March 10, 2017 0

The Corner Man

He sips his cognac
and she sits at the waterfall vanity
uncorking the delicate glass bottles
filled with powders and creams.
She argues with him about the order of tea
(sachet, water, sugar, milk, of course)
and the conviction in her voice
is a promise he doesn’t yet believe.

She looks in his direction
and her smile strikes him like a match.
He knows the devil is near the surface,
but he wants a drink.
He doesn’t care how it’s dispensed –
he vows to savor every drop
and learn her body like
he learns a language:
mouthing each word slowly,
marveling at the way the sounds
feel on his tongue.

Even in the midst of pain
he feels bliss
and he tucks her into bed
with his insecurities.
Her eyes begin to close
and he feels the void.
“You can surrender yourself,” she tells him.
“I’ll be here when you awaken.”
When the line is suddenly cut
change comes quickly
and he feels the burden
of time and separation.
“It’s not goodbye,” she whispers in half-sleep.
“It’s just a pause to catch our breath.”

March 10, 2017 0

The Albatross

It was the day you killed
the albatross
at the beach house
that my grandfather built
that I realized
you didn’t know
what love was.
I tried to teach you
but it was more than
you ever knew could be true
so you decided
it wasn’t.

It was the evening we spent
at your friend’s house
in West Seattle
playing dominoes
that you told me those people
were more family
than I’d ever be
because unlike them
I didn’t look
like you.
When you swore it was
as true
as you knew it could be
I drove away
deciding it was.

March 10, 2017 0

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