There was so much of you I never meant to let in,
and suddenly it was 4AM, and you knew my secrets
even though there was so much I never said,
like I was a novel you found in a dumpster
and read from cover to cover before anyone told you
the pages had blurred to illegibility – the mystery
was solved ahead of time, and you said
my book was good before you knew I had a story.
So Merry Christmas, wherever you are.
I’m still writing.
By Heidi Turner
Thirty-five pages in, I think I’ve found the villain.
It’s his play I’m watching unfold, so why
is the story out of control? “Censor yourself!”
The glamorous amorous King of the world
forgot that he is King for a day,
the player with the long goodbye,
but goodbye while on-stage.
I wonder what kind of kingdom
the sons of the murdered brave will have.
The future looks as foretold as the past;
the world spins on its axis and fortunes reverse.
The present did not creep up:
it came bearing trumpets.
By Heidi Turner
A modest universe
inhabits the space between your eyes and mine.
In other words:
we are kissing, and I am minutely aware of your hand
now lightly touching
the small of my back, only now remembering
you don’t like
the flavor of mint, especially after coffee.
We’ll break up
soon – the world’s quietest supernova.
By Heidi Turner
It writhes and shrieks between my ears,
a mountain range I traverse alone,
fingers finding icy peaks
and the loneliest crags within my soul –
the map I draw across my image is
an endless topographical anomaly,
“Where is God,” screamed from my place
in the palm of His hand.
By Heidi Turner
It’s a drop of water rolling
between your shoulder blades,
a river through your bra strap.
It’s a delicate crust
lining your eyelids, holding
tears in place; it isn’t smiling.
It follows broken promises
unfettered – it is infectious, viral,
delicious venom, maybe medicine.
Look! You caught a glimpse!
Breathe, but slowly, slowly…
There it was again.
By Heidi Turner
It’s a suitcase in the corner
with a breaking zipper;
an antique carpetbag you’ll
leave behind in a train station
when you spot the Big Idea, misty
in the morning, nipping at your nose.
It was free, you’ll remember,
forgetting what was inside
before the train reaches London,
but after you miss the feeling
of a worn-out handle in your palm.
By Heidi Turner
Blank
Blank
Oceans? Maybe.
Blank.
Blank.
Woods / trees / leaves
Walt Whitman.
Blank.
Quarter to midnight?
I suppose that will do.
By Heidi Turner
Spheres, encircle me –
let the Hand overhead
touch me, removing crowns
appointed by none;
I want to be caught up,
surrounded, re-knighted
so I can cast my weapons down,
followed by falling, undone.
By Heidi Turner
It pulls and pushes, breaking
the world’s most flawless selfhood,
traveling across the universe
at barely-human speed.
I watch it pulled away,
drawn by moonlight into endless
closeness with the stars;
I am released by nothing, holding
the universe you breathed.
I see it all: I am that sea.
By Heidi Turner
I watch the hands
and spin with them
across the face,
waltzing as though
Time is a friend
and not the chain
tied to my feet.
By Heidi Turner
I once distilled my soul
into a glass bottle worth five cents,
and when the poetry drained
I drank me down;
I found I taste like jazz.
By Heidi Turner
I see it, the players kicking dust
and moving like dancers
who alone can hear the music.
This is what my childhood
was made of, but the tune
I hummed has faded;
I am left only with the rhythm
that occasionally floods my bones.
By Heidi Turner
Your eyes crinkled like foil
when you beat the buzzer:
a three-point shot
made of notebook paper
and a sidewalk trash can.
The world turned golden;
you've been bathed in light
ever since.
By Heidi Turner
Just last week, contentment
invaded, clutching a gift
wrapped in red ribbon,
a tiny box filled
with shattered stone tablets:
a list erased
by the finger of God.
By Heidi Turner
My third cup of tea
seemed excessive,
as my hands were almost
shaking with caffeine,
so naturally I poured
a fourth, this time with milk.
I rarely drink these days,
so I content myself
with infinitesimal vices,
hiding corruption
under shiny spots of grace.
By Heidi Turner
“Over” is coming closer
with every careless kiss.
I can no longer feel
forever, lover,
do not call me in.
I ask only for your song;
“goodbye”
when the door shuts.
By Heidi Turner
I looked into your eyes
and you fell in love.
I wish the opposite,
or any of many opposites:
that I had never looked,
that you had never loved,
or that I had captured both.
I looked into your eyes,
but that was not enough.
By Heidi Turner
You told me you believed in magic;
in sparkling elves and quiet spirits
that haunt long-empty halls.
You said you believed in science,
in words in ink and measurements,
in glass leaving double-sized reflections.
You believed so long in goodness,
in best wishes and vibes, yes, again,
you believed in magic under our skin.
However, of all you once believed,
I cling to a moment: you believed in me.
By Heidi Turner
Playing in the shadows,
I believe in the keys;
they stand still and I dance.
My heart believes and begs
for stillness; beneath me,
I am made of melody.
By Heidi Turner
