59

A satin-sashed serenade
a foxtrot of forgiveness:
“you can do anything,
but
you can’t do everything.”
cue the world’s
most delicate fanfare

If I had as many arms as
I wished I did,
I’d be more extremity
than me.
My identity is not in
how much I continue to reach
but in my ability to pull back
when I’ve lost track.

Following each fork in the road
just to be sure I didn’t
miss anything
I ended up missing a lot:
invitations to a wine bottle, shared
cat-sitting a cat I don’t like
impromptu sushi nights
RSVP, respond later

I’ve discovered that the best part of sushi
is in the freshness of fish
not in the number of pieces
I can fit on my plate.

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57

“Come back to bed,”
like a phantom, eager
to pull me in and
hold me ransom.

Our past just so raw
I can roll it around on my tongue, sinewy
sepia memories and a history so faded
I can’t make out those people in the shot
embedded forever in film
I swear I may have seen before
a lifetime ago.

I’ve learned not to
seek refuge from those who
refused me in the rain
but did let me in when the sun shined.

Finding yourself tangled again
familiar bedsheets and instinctual fingers
remember that your own hands held the umbrella
that kept you from the storm,
not someone else’s promise that
this time, it’s different.

56

Nhi
meaning ‘little one’
my parents called me nho, sometimes
a singular grape
a child so small
plucked from a vine

I was given an English name
so that I wouldn’t get bullied
for such an exotic background
I was reborn for the convenience
of others

Michelle
meaning ‘child of God’
my mother had two boys she loved
but prayed everyday to have a girl
the third time,
to have her likeness reflected
in such a tiny face
and in December of ’94
she did

I rejected Nhi most of my life
a relic of forgetting myself
of welcoming the parts that were easy
and holding my applause for the parts
I wanted to keep quiet

A single syllable
uttered like a sigh in the night–
why would I try to erase
the love that preceded my birth
and the affection that named me?

55

Checkered, polka-dot, plaid;
a pattern of familiarity
an alarming consistency of what’s next.

I once met someone who admitted to me
that he may never get married;
he didn’t think he could love anyone.

Instead of asking those big questions,
“When did you start thinking that?”
“Do you really believe it?”
I started thinking,
“I can change that,
I can make him love me.”

He just needed someone to talk to
someone to understand how
loneliness can eat away at you
like ants on a picnic blanket

This pattern of trying
to fit everything
into everything else,
that I had a place
in anything I deemed
needed fixing.
Not every statement needs a response
and not every time are you
that answer.

54

Please, don’t mind the mess
place your things wherever you want
organize the pillows however you like
should we order in?

Do you like green or red grapes?
Depends which ones look sweeter
How can they look sweet?
I don’t know, they just do
somehow, he’s right every time

Tumble dry
the permanent press of life
eggs, milk, some carrots
dryer sheets and dish soap
and some wine, probably
cheers to us,
we deserve it

Mismatched saucer and a chipped highball
sugar rim my glass
we complain about the week ahead, clink
we dream about who we’ll be in a decade, kiss
we laugh at friends getting married too soon, refill
we converse til our eyes grow heavy
we leave for work in the morning
and we always come home to each other.

 

Today is my one year anniversary on WordPress! Thank you all for embarking on this adventure with me. Almost 3,000 followers later, who knew we could come together like this?

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Love,
ELLE

53

Filled with apologies
pooled on your tongue
blurted out into the air
without an ounce of meaning–
because your mouth
is full of them.

As if embedded in you
like mercury in
fatty tuna flesh,
you can’t even say
what you’re sorry for
just that you think
you should be.

Feeling apologetic
you’ll say anything to be forgiven
to be rid of feeling anything but
adoration;
what a waste it is
to impress
a proud person.

The first person who died from
rhubarb’s poisonous leaves
probably thought that no good
could come from this
and now, centuries later,
we learned from those mistakes
and we make pie from the stalks instead.

52

It’s easier to assume this isn’t yours
because when it leaves, you
won’t feel disappointed.

After all your hard work
and all you have achieved
that milestone on the horizon
just out of reach
and success just doesn’t taste
as sweet as you thought.

This word, ‘just’
like a small favour to yourself
grovelling, “please, just finish this now
and relax tomorrow,”
putting necessity aside to
cross your to-do list and finally consider
this belongs to you.

Sometimes the weight of every paper stack
misaligns your spine
topsy turvy, too
aching for equilibrium.

If you fall behind because you need rest
to find your calm
thankfully, your work
is not the centre of your universe;
you are.