testing the waters.

I’m a skeptic.
It runs in the family.
Every time it storms
I gather my treasures in a wooden milk crate—
prepared to seek shelter in the cellar—
on the off chance that the mighty winds
of the darkened heavens will swirl and coalesce around
the yearning finger of a seduced god,
and a silken tornado
will breach the murky skies
and slip down to briefly caress
the flattened breasts of the exposed Ohio plains.
I have a collection of tomato sauce jars
accumulating on my window sill
filled with water and oil
from the nights when I’m not quite convinced
that the liquids will separate.
I rub salt in my wounds,
and purposely burn my fingers on the hot stove
just to make sure that my nerve endings
are still functioning properly,
to feel the burning,
to make certain that I’m still human,
to confirm that I can still feel.

I'm restless.
I want to skip town.
Part of me wants to run off and join the circus
and disappear into the sunset in a patchwork parade of lions
and ladies in shimmering ball-gowns carrying leather whips,
but I’m a country boy at heart.
It’s spring, and I want nothing more
than to fly my kite from my rooftop,
and climb my neighbor’s magnolia tree,
and play my guitar on the front porch,
and send hollyhock dolls and newspaper boats down the river,
and get lost in a cornfield.
It’s the little things that count.
[I can’t raise a barn,
but I can build you a sturdy cathedral
out of chairs and bed sheets.
I can’t spin straw into gold,
but I can unspool a trail of thread
to guide you home.
I can’t steer a ship,
but I can wait for you
out on the widow’s peak.
I can’t lasso a horse,
but I can exhale
twisting smoke ladders to the stars
and hand you the moon.]

Winter has long since passed
but I’m still thawing.
I’ve been taking things bird by bird,
day by day,
limb by limb,
phrase by phrase.
I’ve been stirring hurricanes in teacups
but I don’t know if this is the right approach.
I want an ocean.
I want someone to melt my icebergs
and test my waters.