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How many wars will it take us to learn that only the dead return?

Andrea Gibson

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Andrea Gibson
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: August 13
Poet
Calais
Maine
Andrew Gibson
War
Take
Many
Wars
Return
Dead
Learn

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she's wondering how many women are walking around this world feeling the tingling of their amputated wings remembering what it was to fly to sing
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I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling good. I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling bad. I wanna know the first person who taught you your beauty could ever be reflected on a lousy piece of glass.
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I would kiss you in the middle of the ocean during a lightning storm cuz I'd rather be left for dead than wondering what thunder sounds like.
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You panic button collector. You clock of beautiful ticks. You run out the door if you need to. You flock to the front row of your own class. You feather everything until you know you can always, always shake like a leaf on my family tree and know you belong here. You belong here and everything you feel is okay. Everything you feel is okay.
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I’ve written this poem before but always through a window, never through an open door.
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You can have a cold war with yourself, even in the summertime
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I don't believe we're hateful. I think mostly we're just asleep, but the math adds up the same.
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The trauma said, ‘Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.
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I write because it is while I'm writing that I feel most connected to why we're here. I write because silence is a heavy weight to carry. I write to remember. I write to heal. I write to let the air in. I write as a practice of listening.
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Say this is what the pain made of you: an open, open, open road, an avalanche of feel it all.
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That night when you kissed me, I left a poem in your mouth, and you can hear some of the lines every time you breathe out.
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I am wrong more often than i am writing and even then i am often wrong
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Everyone’s chest is a living room wall with awkwardly placed photographs hiding fist-shaped holes.
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Someday we will dare to trade good for true
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So guess what, if I ever have my own team I am picking everyone first even the worst kid and the kid with the stutter like a skipping record 'cause I know all of us are scratched, even if you can't hear it when we speak.
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This is my body. It is no one's but mine.
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Touch me 'til my ribs become piano keys.
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and I wonder if Beethoven held his breath the first time his fingers touched the keys the same way a soldier holds his breath the first time his finger clicks the trigger. We all have different reasons for forgetting to breathe.
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You are not weak just because your heart feels so empty.
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Love isn't always magic. But if I offered my body to the magician, if I told him to cut me in half so after that I could come to you whole and ask for you back would you listen for this dark alley love song? For the winter we heated our home from the steam off our own bodies?
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