Lifeline To Non-Special Ed

When I was in eighth grade I was still attending the Waldorf school. This was something of an embarrassment for me when around other kids–I don’t know why it was, but maybe it was because I knew there was something weird about going to an expensive private school and I didn’t really know how to be thankful for that privilege, so I made fun of it instead.

Anyway, at the end of eighth grade my parents and I were trying to decide what high school I should attend. There was a Waldorf High school in Seattle, but the commute would have been atrocious and the cost as well. I visited the public school and the only part I can really remember is visiting the special ed English class.

The class was writing “poems.” I say “poems,” because they were only poems in the loosest of terms. The prompts were dull and didn’t promote lyrical interest or precision. It was more about comparing things to other things. I wrote about a pig, but I can’t remember what I compared it to.

I remember the people in that classroom being quite nice, but still, I wasn’t impresses with the public school system. I felt as though they were catering to the person who moved the slowest–which, in many ways, it does. Regardless, I would spend countless hours in that classroom over the next 3 years. There was no way to avoid it, and parts of it were actually pretty fun because every once in a while I’d find myself in the class with someone who wasn’t socially awkward–he was behind in some way, but he was also a popular person outside of that classroom. It sorta felt like I was their lifeline, and they were mine, to the outside world of non-special ed courses. It felt good to be that for someone, even just for one class.

4/22/13 Broken

Friends in a broken home

no longer feel safe.

A whole home felt broken,

now feels like a sanctuary.

A girl with a broken heart

learning how to love.

A beach with a broken shore

brings in treasure.

A son with a broken arm

one year ago, is coming home.

A bluff with broken ledge

cold on the soles of feet.

Love in a broken heart

sometimes makes stiff arms.

Retreat from a broken house

we call could have done better.

I was too absent.

4/9/15 Three Days Ago

Do you love me–really?

or are we both afraid to be alone?


Three days ago I thought I knew you.

Now when you call I don’t know what to say.


After work today, you called to tell me something

weird. Your old co-workers from LA were

in your restaurant. It was unlikely,

but my mind was blank.


All I said was, “huh?”


Then we talked about nothing until you 


“I’m going to concentrate on walking.”

I’m going to concentrate on walking

What does that mean?


Three days ago we told each other

we loved one another.


When we hung up today we both said,


because, I think, saying, “I miss you.” or

“I love you.” would taste stale in my mouth.


Because for the last two day you have

not said it but when I said it.


Three days ago you said it so often,

so much. and when I said it back I meant

every word every time and I think you did



Now when I say it you say it without a

smile. or without looking at me.


And when you do look at me, I see none

of that excitment I once saw in those

eyes–only fear–or worry–or

a distracted gaze.


Three days ago you told me you

had a lot to figure out. You told me

you had so much to do–so little time.

I said if you needed to be along then

you should be alone.


You said I was right.


Three days ago you said you wanted me

to stay the whole week.

Now I wonder if you want me to stay another

day. And when you said you’d be house

sitting for some time I wondered, for a

moment, if you’d be inviting me. Then that moment

stretched into silence and I understood that

you wouldn’t and I wasn’t.


See, it comes back to such little time.

It comes back to that single “bye.”

It’s the time we have spent when everything

has been perfect.

But like you said three days ago–

“It feels like the honeymoon is over.”

And now I feel as though I’m waiting for


to make up your mind.