how old young people think they are.

he called me
with his big head plastered in the sky
to far above my reach
but close enough to define
he said i should come back
live unhappy and fat
in the white suburban neighborhood
in the white suburban town
against the white suburban river that lined twelve acres down
he thought his voice would lure me into the picket fence
of a yellow trimmed house
with the cherry oak lining all the streets downtown
he thought his proposal would grasp
my aching body
my restless body
my youth body
this body that runs from everyplace its ever been
as he would call it
fear
running
does he know its to escape from him
all of him and his bright ideals
all of him and his thundering thoughts
all of him in his whiteness
but i am white too
whiter then him
pale
bleak
winterized
he came fresh off the corn fields with his heart on a rampage west
i came fresh from the west with my heart on a rampage to anyplace north south east of the pacific
he says “its time to settle down baby”
just barley twenty five
i laugh to myself
how old young people think they are
he says “its time to stop the running”
“i will never stop running”
I scream
into a whisper
he found me an arizona desert
to young to drink
and to foolish to know the differences of sex and love and fucking
so we fucked and i thought for a moment “could this be love”
but how could love feel like this against my skin
irritated
red
abrasive
simple living
simple soft
beautiful body
would he ever stimulate my mind in the depths of the night
in the four cornered rooms
of that four cornered house
three babies sleeping
i will make cookies
pack lunches with peanut butter and jelly home made from the fruit trees of plum and apricot slowly dying in the back yard
he’ll take the 9-5 shift of security and its scrutinizing pain as we forget our dreams and
that feeling of freedom
i couldnt tell him beyond the borders of white and the hard to define gray
that in my restless mind
my schizophrenic gemini ways
that some days I wake up without the fight
and he sounds good to me
taking care of me
wrapping me up in blankets against the heated dry seasons
and when im forty-seven ill look back
bitterly exposed
raging hormones and hot flashes
and i will run
and i will scream
so i couldn’t tell him
not today
and possibly not tomorrow
i couldn’t tell him in any sense of strength that i never loved his heart
it was fucking
confused with love or sex or something i wished could conjure up emotion
but never would
i couldn’t tell him that i might come back around
in my red linen dress
find myself nestled between the spaces of white planked wood
in the backdrop of a blue house
i couldn’t tell him that the arms wrapped around my protruding belly would not be his
couldn’t tell him i might possibly run around the world
twice
around thoughts and distances where ideas form and create themselves
under the tongue bellowing out of a poets breath
couldnt tell him in the years beyond me
in any sort of clarity
that I might be the third house down
just left of his