grandpa.

i don't remember grandpa's hands
or the way he smelled
or sounded.
but i will never forget the day
he cooked a cow tongue in our oven
and the motion his body made
when he served it.
as if it was prime rib
or better.

the piano teacher

there is a room
filled with haphazard books
some artifacts from china
and a bench i had to raise
so that i could reach
the keys.
i still go there
in my dreams
at night when my mind chooses
to remember
instead of
to invent.
my hands fall
on ivory
fingers pointed correctly
wrists up
up
higher
high enough to play
debussy 
and then
beethoven.
it was supposed to be a dining room
but the clink of silverware and stemware
never filled it.
instead there were those like me
in the middle of memorizing sonatas
dropped off by our parents
who
relished the hour to themselves.
sitting awkwardly next to
her
with her huffing
and heavy sighs
brought on with great effort
each time we struck
the wrong note.
knowing nothing about us
other than
how much we practiced
or didn't
the week before.
noticing only that i
was withering
away
when my fingers became
so delicate
i could hardly
play loud enough
to be heard. 

it shines.

my skin says optimism.
be.
optimistic.
it yells it at me
in hand-drawn type encircled with flowers
and vine.
it say
find the fucking light,
jessi.
find it.
it's wearing ten flowers
purple
orange
yellow
pink
red.
my favorite is purple.
i bought this bracelet
- plastic -
but still, the same shade.
and sometimes
when i put it
on top of
the purple flower
and screaming optimism
i realize
the actual beauty
in the words.
beyond the design
and the way it wraps delicately
around my forearm.
the idea of light
in darkness.
the idea of something
out of nothing.
the belief that brightness wins.
and then
i can
for once
remain silent
long enough to say
thank you
and
to feel
the
love
the truth.
until seconds later
i slather spf 50
all over the words on my arm
for fear that the sun
will fade it
forever.