My 8 pound 8 oz babe,
I see your face. 
I see your heart. 
The goodness. 
I've never felt so lucky,
as when they laid you on my chest.
Never felt so grateful, 
as when we lay,
side by side.
Hand in hand- 
I've never felt so loved, 
as I do when I hold you.
And now you're 8.
And now I must learn how
to live, 
while my heart goes on
walking around
outside of me. 

Ill fitting

It grows within, it peppers my skin, knowing that I don’t fit in.

In every space, I feel my face, my self-disgust, my disgrace.

I am two left feet, incomplete, life’s greatest cheat, internal heat.

The giant on the ceiling, incandescent grieving, sabotaging, weaving, so small & disbelieving.

Never enough, not worthy of love, raw & rough, talk off the cuff.

Fear is the foe, don’t you know? Where to go, grubby & low.

Ugly, dumb, hide, get numb, wishing for a tiny crumb.

Self- destruct, fight, erupt, give in when it gets too much.

Oddball, pitfall, smart arsed know it all, hear it in a cat call.

Jeering, laughing, ribbing, then tell me you are kidding, it’s really not very funny, to someone so ill fitting.

The sun shone on my last day,
early spring with a beautiful light.
I shrugged off my lethargy,
climbed out of bed.
Enjoyed the view from the window,
the colours danced bright.
~
I saw my face in the mirror,
that look only I seem to see.
I studied this stranger,
no escaping his truth.
Downstairs to the kitchen,
time alone with just me.
~
A little late for my friends,
but at least I did try.
We share our stories,
I give nothing away.
These people love me,
I have no idea why.
~
Onwards to the restaurant,
great company, nice food.
I laughed at the jokes,
made plans for next time.
Said my farewells at the door,
I’d hidden my mood.
~
Walked towards my home,
still no real plan.
I headed to the bridge,
maybe I now knew.
The answer seemed clearer,
a voice told me I can.
~
And then I jumped.
~
I cried and then I jumped.
~
I smiled and then I jumped.

It’s been a minute
since I just barely successfully shut
the door on the room full of magic eight balls
they had become piled so high
I almost didn’t make it out
But even as I squeezed myself through
I had to stop them from falling
Mustering all of my strength
to press my left cheek, shoulder, and hip
against every time I’ve ever asked
“If no one sees it
will you still be proud?”
I won’t ask again later
now that the latch has caught
I just have to remember to put a sign on the door
I’ll put one up tomorrow in my favorite color

It’s becoming clear
that with every return
this practice serves more as a promise
to keep going despite
what’s inevitably around the corner on the opposing end
Another version of myself
lying dormant
waiting for the sun to set so it can crawl out
from the depths of my sacrum
from the well of my mind
from the crevices of my cervical nerves
She’s there
resting up for the drop
But for now, my favorite color is everywhere I go
and the sun hangs long enough for me to feel welcome

I might’ve
said goodbye to some of the sand that built me
but I know I continue to possess the tools
to build anew
They say when one door closes
it’s actually likely even more will prevent your entry
but there’s no harm in pushing through
Possible bruises of course
but what a small price for joy
I said I would count the days
my newfound strategy to employ
The sand that built me slips through
my shaking hands
but my favorite color surrounds my favorite spot
if I remember to visit

Come and back again
come and back again
It’s almost like
this rotation was particularly full
of so much time spent doing
exactly what I was meant to be
It’s almost like
my heart has gathered enough evidence to make it through until
the next awakening of
my favorite color

It’s purple, by the way

I think I’ll just
take a brief moment to rest
and then I’ll crawl to click unsubscribe from my
weekly magic eight ball delivery
The door is still closed but
a small pool of blue is starting to
seep underneath
I’ll clean it up later
for now, I’m so unbelievably proud

Grief is funny
I sat in my chair 
For close to two years
When my mom died.

Everything stopped
No birthday for me
No Christmas for me
Without her I was lost.

Gradually life came back in
Through my grandson’s laugh
Through my daughter’s hug
Through my son’s text.

But there still was a grayness
About my world
Nothing was clear or bright
Grief clouded it all.

I didn’t think grief
Would come 
When my dad died
I thought it already did.

But here it is,
A ghost of the first grief-
Not a crushing weight
But a quiet ache.

Stop. Screams my heart
The world is not the same
He is gone, the last link to family
We will never be the same.

His huge personality
His enormous laugh 
His gigantic heart
Have left this earth with a hole.

I know it will grow over
I know it will end
I just didn’t know that in the end
It still hurts.

You, you were the guard at the gate, 
the trusted one she looked toward 
to let her know when it was time, 
to hide, 
inside.

Your breath quickened 
as her heart kept its pace,
thus began the race 
of fight or flight. 

Into the night 
just you and me. 
We would run from the danger 
of the stranger 
who haunted her memories.

She admired your ability 
to protect and serve, 
while sending warnings 
through frayed nerves. 

She tested your boundaries. 
You, you tested hers.
Replacing protection 
with shame in detecting
you wanted her alone.

Enough! she pleads.
For can you not see
life 
is to be lived
to be believed.

She doesn't hate you
so, don't misunderstand
her hands 
are now 
in a full stop.

Now, she guards the gate,
that equates
the grip allowed 
in your hands.

Together, we stand
facing what tomorrow brings.

They escape us, the essences

of the passing clouds

and of the surface ripples of the seas

fleeting and floating by

like everything under the blue dome of the bright sky.

So. Stay. Look.

Sit. Enjoy.

holding still to the summer sun,

fixing fast

the view that cannot last,

this moving scenery beyond our grasp.

And it’s already gone

as the dying day moves on

and on

towards the night

as the green of the summer

takes flight

turning into the brown

of the leaves that begin to fall down.

We cannot find our home

to keep forever.

Hiraeth

as the Welsh call it.

An absence.

A hole in the heart.

So we continue to shop,

for the person

the product

the new abode

the right job

the right life

and maybe, at the end of it all,

the right God;

still hidden, elusive, nameless.

The Essence,

The Completion,

just out of sight

half glimpsed in a half light

as if by chance

in a sideways glance.

There in some liminal place

A mystery,

hidden beneath a shiny surface

yet awaiting eternal discovery.

I was listening to a friend talk about his friend’s daughter. She has a debilitating invisible disease. He said people forget how difficult it can be. I said, you’re telling me to a wide-eyed, slightly confused look in response. I lacked the energy to explain my health again. Apparently, it is just what men are like; don’t expect them to check in. Don’t expect them to stay in the room whilst you’re talking. The subject matter too awkward for even two minutes of feigned interest. It isn’t just men. I know men. I know men who haven’t seen me for years ask how I am holding up. I know men who I haven’t even met, check in and ask if I am alright. I know men who will make any excuse to get me to walk outside my flat for fresh air and daylight.

I also know women who will not let me go down without a fight, who will send books, care packages, turn up at my door saying I don’t give a shit how you look. And women who ask pleasantries despite knowing full well that you are drowning. Please lower your voice or could we talk about this when the children aren’t in earshot? Break-up support is easy, group messages flow freely — note to self: do not use this chat to report my self-harm urges are getting the best of me because, surely, Suzie, you are joking??? It’s not about gender it is about empathy, creating space and time to speak so when someone asks "how are you?", there is enough emotional air to do more than stare at your feet and mumble I am fine. 

I want access to help and support to be easier. I want less fear driving away support — I have kept thinking about the time shortly after I moved to London. I kept wanting to walk in front of a classic red double-decker bus. My boyfriend at the time called me a selfish cunt. He left me because people cannot handle ultimate honesty. I remember being so busy managing the feelings and reactions of others mine were left dangling off the edge of a cliff. To receive help you have to speak terrifying things out loud without being spoken over or immediately shut down. I don't want isolation to feel inevitable. I don't want fear to win.

A cold, dark February night 
I waded into the North Sea; 
your feet on dry ground
your eyes reflecting moonlight 
saying you would wait for me.  

I took my pain and folded
once, down the middle
and then again

slips of paper, creased
and opened, kami
folded- origami

creased and folded life
preservers, to pull
me in when I start drowning.

I didn't know the words I'd
scribbled, so desperate to 
stay above the water

would turn to lead and sink
my lifeboat. All that weight
I'd dragged on board. 

But I've been trying, 
pulling anchor, settling in
and now I find, the less I hold

the more I'm floating,
the more I'm weightless,
like freedom sailing on the wind. 

Hmmmm.
What is Control?
Fuck I have some strange ideas. 
I think I believe 
that I must always be in control 
but only of myself, my reaction. 
Not as in control of my life, 
the driver behind the wheel navigating 
but a passenger on this bus 
that must not fart or sweat or jiggle 
my leg disruptively for the poor soul 
who had to sit next to me out of simple necessity.
I have described to others, 
the professionals now littering my life, 
that my emotions seem to exist under a glass divide. 
I can see them.
A swirl of colour, a nebula, 
or an animated Jackson pollock impression.
And the noise is muffled. 
For all I know there are Dantesque pleas falling on deaf ears.
And if I ever let slip my control 
surely cracks will form and all of me 
will spill and splatter. 
Or years of anger never expressed 
will well up and consume us all. 
Or I will simply be undone.
And yet 
and yet when I drink 
I relinquish control and hand it to the bottle. 
And then joy leaches out, 
hope kindles, sorrows sing, 
melancholy wraps around me 
and cans drag me to despair. 
My hands become claws and draw blood 
for what reason? 
Punishment for the shameful failure 
of having allowed the silent siren call 
of the alcohol to have somehow driven me to drink? 
Torture for my lack of will? 
It is never really conscious 
and I only notice it when my fingers become painted red 
and need to be washed. 
And yet still I do not stop. 
And I am detached. 
Curious. 
Not overly concerned. 
And what am I trying to tell myself? 
Is my soul so disappointed 
it uses any tactics in its arsenal 
to awaken me?

People ask me
when my mental health
began to unravel,
as though there were
one loose thread,
one terrible Tuesday,
one wrong turn.
But that isn't how it happened.
It happened
the way water
learns stone.
Quietly.
Repeatedly.
It happened
every time I mistook
hypervigilance
for wisdom,
every time my nervous system
called an old emergency
home.
I became
astonishingly good
at surviving.
Which is another way of saying
I forgot
how to live.
For years,
I searched for the light
as though it had abandoned me.
I searched in books,
in diagnoses,
in teachers,
in perfectly worded affirmations,
in the next thing,
and the next.
I kept asking,
"Who will save me?"
while the oldest,
truest part of me
waited patiently
for a different question.
"What if nothing is wrong with you?"
The first time
that possibility
entered my body,
it did not arrive
like fireworks.
It arrived
like unclenching.
Like my breath
remembering
it had ribs to rest inside.
Like the wild relief
of discovering
that my mind
had not betrayed me.
It had been standing watch.
It had simply forgotten
that the war was over.
Mental health,
I have learned,
is not the absence
of struggle.
It is the slow,
often untidy,
practice
of coming back
when your thoughts
wander into old ruins,
when your body
braces for ghosts,
when shame
tries to convince you
it is your native language.
It is placing one gentle hand
on your own shoulder
and saying,
"I know why you learned this.
Thank you.
You don't have to carry it
alone anymore."
If you are reading this
from a room
that feels too small,
from a season
that has convinced you
there is no morning,
I will not insult you
with borrowed certainty.
I will only tell you
what another soul
once left burning
for me.
The light
is not something
you must earn.
It is not waiting
at the end
of perfection.
It has been with you
all along,
steady beneath the fear,
beneath the noise,
beneath every brilliant,
exhausting strategy
you invented
to stay alive.
Sometimes
the bravest thing
we ever do
is stop searching
for the light
long enough
to notice
it has been patiently waiting
for us to remember
we never really left.
Welcome home.

Shhh...I'm trying to listen.
It's too loud in here, is there a shut off
button?
Why are you so fidgety? Calm down.
Call it ADHD.
Look me in the eyes when you speak.
Lower your voice-you don't have to 
yell. 
Call it ADHD.
What time is it? Where are we going?
Why aren't you responding?
You're so creative and talented. 
I wish I had a brain like yours.
Call it ADHD.
That due date was last month, what took
you so long?
Depression? Anxiety? Appetite Issues?
Please, everyone goes through it.
I think I may be a little ADHD.
Nothing is wrong with you.
You don't look like you have ADHD.
Call it ADHD and learn. 

A poem for my therapist.

Anything you lose
By speaking truth,
By being holy you,
Because there is no other,
That is not loss.
It is how you are found.
The fairest trade,
Your quietest victory,
The sweetest surrender.

Do not grieve for it.
New life begins
When old life is laid down.
We encumber ourselves with much,
And all that is not truth is burden.
We must lay it down to rise.

To conquer the mountains
And from their summits
Watch new worlds unfurl,
Unimagined before the climb.

From such peaks,
Light is cast, not kept.
Vision cannot be held,
Only passed,
From one eye to the next.
The light you see,
Others hold as well.
You may find it
By lighting another’s path,
Or being led by theirs.
And in the giving,
The flame does not fade.
A thousand candles
Can be lit from one.

When night and hardship
Hide the path,
As they often will,
And you cannot see
The valleys below
Or the road ahead,
The way still exists.

Truth may be hidden,
But it is never absent.
The path winds through darkness.
It endures, even when you cannot.
And in knowing this, you will endure.

Truth does not need
To speak its name
To be the truth.
It has patience,
If you do too.

The light you gave has not died.
It shines still, multiplied a hundred times.
The sun will rise again.
The light will find its way.
The path will open
As shadows fall away.

You always knew the path.
You needed only
To ask the light,
And it will always answer.

Vision, once beheld,
Cannot be taken.
Darkness has no presence,
Only the absence of light.

When night blinds you,
Be still.
Be patient.
Be kind.
Ask.
And the light will answer.

You were never in darkness.
It always shone through you.

The sun,
It rises in you too.

Spliced in half,
nature's morsel,
I'm wrapped in butcher paper
spoiling in the daystar.  
flies stitch hymns,
into my seams,
their silver exoskeletons 
humming over what's been 
left unnamed. 
the sun does 
not forgive, 
it only leans closer, 
a slow, deliberate witness. 
I was whole once- 
veins singing under skin,
pulse arguing with time-
warm and beating-
but now I soften 
into silence, 
a quiet surrender 
of edges, 
a sweetness turning strange. 

It's only midday-
and I'm full of life, thick with sky,
sweating droplets.

The world spins round and round,
I have already lapsed 
dessert terrain-
dense and arid as asphalt. 

The sun in its brightness 
bears down. Grass withers between 
cracked sidewalks. Sirens blare and won't
stop their stares.

Streetlights flicker, on and off, 
on and off, on and off. 

Can vroom down a linear line.

My ears won't hear another word,
At day's end don't look down for me-
I'm wrapping myself in a cocoon. 

I no longer fear the cracks
when they begin to form. 

Countless times already I have shattered
and pieced myself back together. 

See how my mosaic soul sparkles. 

Monsters flourish in the dark
Multiplying nameless
Inhabiting hearts and minds
They make tragedy their roost.

Secrets kept for countless years
Deep inside, unspoken,
Devour light, distort the truth
Bleed like open wounds.

We carry on with souls exposed
Vulnerable to fiction
Never knowing who we are
Searching for a witness.

The remedy is more than trust
A companion who will listen
Without judgment, without blame
Holding space for wisdom.

Courageous, they will stay the course
Sitting with the pain
Sharing tears or angry words
Giving monsters names.

Speaking the unspeakable
We exorcise the ghosts
Discovering a sacred self
Present before the loss.

Stories are our salvation
From the damage of the past
A caring ally by our side
Will heal old aching scars.

Words have a spirit of their own
When brought into the light
Recovery comes from illumination
On the morning side of night.

Grief is a well where I am watering my flowers.

I lower the bucket slowly knowing,
      this hurts
       this hurts
         this hurts
But the substance is necessary.
I fill it only slightly,
    just enough to sustain.
Only so much can be carried
   before the weight will sting again.

Each pull of the rope is arduous.
Precious cargo rising from the deep.

At the top, my arms extend slowly, 
Hands shaking as they reach.

It could all spill on the ground here — then what? 
It’s wasted? (I’d have to try again. We’ve been here before.)
My hands are blistered from the familiar weight.

I carry it gently back to my garden.
A journey from the desert to the trees.
There, I sprinkle it softly,
    to strengthen growing seeds.

The snakes will come crawling off my eyes and I'll catch them on my hand, they'll lick my fingers
and escape and hit the floor
You will offer to help but you'll
look a little awkward running after slippery snakes
And even though you couldn't tell 
each had its purpose
Now as I am being shaken like a tree
on a land rearranging her tectonic plates
the purpose is shifting and so the snakes migrate
Sorry you had to see that
They will soon all be gone
like ribbons attacking the sky
celebrating my effort to heal
I wonder how life will feel
after the earthquake

My soul aches.

A weariness,
I never knew before.
A soul shaken to its essence.
All that I’ve learned,
breaks apart under this weight.

No longer heard,
seen,
remembered.
Another body for the streets.
To live unseen.
Forgotten in the hustle.

Maybe it’s that inner child coming out.
The one that left everything behind once.
The one that learned that his room,
and his music was solace.
The one that never got to know peace.

Come what may.
It’ll all work out in the end.

The one time my mind slipped, and I chased its tail/tale through the park, just like the dog I saw who I knew could read my mind. Everything was loose then. I fought, running into the dark morning of deep November, and the dog stood and stared at me with a knowing face– almost a grin. It knew all the secrets of the universe. The universe, above, nebulous and spinning, cracked in two with a lightning rod, like the end of time or maybe the beginning. Its secrets whispered to me from behind trees and statues, and under park benches. The dog directs a cacophony of voices. Loose associations as I run closer to the hospital and farther away from the screaming trees. I cannot find the time. The clocks betray me. I do not have the time. What is the time?

They called me broken. I called it the beginning.

Nobody tells you the fire isn't punishment, it's translation.

It burns away every name that fear wrote across your skin until only your own remains.

If you're reading this with trembling hands, know this...

You survived a chapter that was certain it would become your ending.

Breathe.

The ash isn't proof that you were destroyed.

It's proof that something inside you refused to stop burning.

There was warmth in the world,
when my first god shone on me.
He told me stories, made me laugh,
and taught me how to see.

He’d order a coffee.
Me: a Fanta or a Coke,
while we reveled in tales of family.

I laughed, and loved and learnt,
in the glow of his pride in me.

The last goodbye, a hug at an airport.
His smell forever in my mind.

Then one day, he was no more,
just a belt draped across clothes on a floor.

A black hole was all that was left.
Void and vacuum, dark and cold.

It took an age
for me to see

I also had
A sun in me.

Green is the last to go,

holding the place of the light,

a lantern mirroring the afternoon 

far into the evening.  As it fades,

the rooster once again begins to crow.

“The bird of dawning singeth all night long,”

as though Our Savior’s set to be reborn,

this time in summer, like all Mideastern gods.

On every side, noises compete with silence:

helicopters from the zenith,

train’s distant blare,

cars restarting as the park shuts down.

All’s again portentous and threatening,

My consciousness gets ready to turn off,

as on that nearly fatal winter’s day

when it closed like a veined and gridded eyelid

over the shushing of tires and a woman’s screaming.

Then my mind snapped off like a light switch while

my car kept going in the sleep of reason,

flew off the highway onto another vehicle,

and then turned over and over in a ditch.

Nothing is ever ordinary again, all has broken,

all shut down, and the fountains of the great deep 

forever broken up, the windows of heaven smashed open.

Something gave me something to cry about, as my father promised:

the fall of a sparrow, the death of innocents,

childhood ending, lost loves, old bastards,

and here, scanning down the narrow valley, and there, 

under the high ridge where gunmen lurk,

I live it all again each night.  None can hit

the STOP button on this endless loop.

I grow old in minutes, Death appears,

offers me comfort and a second chance:

“El mundo es ancho y ajeno!

Nun, ruhfst Du wohl!”

To uproot is nothing casual
to lay on my back and flail

limbs crooked, the smell of last night's
rain, soil on the carpet

sideways and scattered; dusted
into a pile. Nothing merciful

about flicking through time
and folding back its corner

holding a flame against my life
the match still quivering. 

Yesterday pressed its face
against the glass.

Today is an empty bottle.
There's no dressing up

this daily fatigue, a thousand decisions
made backward.

Didn't my mother say 
it is selfish 
to eat when I am hungry?

                                              Joseph had a coat of many colours
                                                       Mine is blue.  All blue.
                                                         Every shade of blue.
                                                  It’s an overcoat not a jacket
                                                         It wraps around me
                                                              It shrouds me
                                            It weighs me down and devours me.
                                             I have a coat many shades of blue.

                                                      So many blues to carry,
                                               their depth reflects the mood.
                                                 Light and airy, calm serenity.
                                              Stony-faced cool and unfriendly.
                                                    Green tones add warmth,
                                                     Grey slithers bring light -
                                 From the deep and moody to bright and breezy.
                                     So many moods to hold, all shades of blue.
                                             At its darkest, it is its heaviest.
                                                  Midnight blue like the sky
                                                    But without the starlight.
                                          Blue as the dark water of the ocean.
                                          Full of mystery with so much unseen,
                                   So much unknown and so much to be feared.
                                                        So much to be lived?
                                        At its darkest it is its most threatening.

                                       Mostly it is the colour of forget-me-nots
                                             Light but striking, eye-catching.
                                                             In case I forget
                                                Reminding me to remember
                                                      To recall the inevitable
                                               Evidencing the unforgettable
                                                      In case I had forgotten, 
                                        mostly it’s the colour of forget-me-nots.

Resurfacing
mouth agape
gulping air.

Refuge

Build
a community. 

Pick
your members.

Protect
your peace.

Routine

Journal. 

Make art. 

Connect. 

Converse. 

Walk.

Self Care

Quit
addictions.

Be
present. 

Make
new memories. 

Day dream. 

Progress
is oh so
sluggish
at first.

But just
do a little
every day
you can. 

Even a
journey
can be
traversed
with little
steps.

I was introduced to Twila and Hank at the museum
Mannequins dispayed their wedding finery
Later that day I was surprised to see them
Reposed in the Village Cemetery

We just met! I lamented,
As I stood by their stones
The years of their lives had flown
Like a hummingbird after a drink

It made me think

Of the short line etched between dates

And reminded me of all the things I had left to do

As I flew

From the cemetery's gates

The waiting room chair 
holds me like a trap.
I count the seconds on 
the clock’s dry tick,
each one a reminder of 

passing unnoticed moment.
Inside that silent room, I imagine him
Sitting alone beneath the cold machine,
They measure the hidden fault line in his chest—
an aortic storm asleep in the dark.

My hands cold and sweaty,
I breathe in shallow fragments of time
waiting for the quiet door to open,
waiting to hear if the world still holds together.

Don't nail me and mount me 
above your mantle —
don’t martyr me
for I am 
just a knot on the pier 
in your harbor… 
a layover on the way over
to what’s to come ahead of me.
Collect not the blood that
drips from my self-sacrificial wounds,
but go and gather fireflies and clover 
that grows abound in the lazy
summer nights.
go and gather the lust that only a
good fucking a one-night-stand
can offer.
go and get lost in the loneliest
cloud who's only just trying to
keep up with the others.
gather the stories that only the 
walls can speak of in a dingy downtown 
bar in Bakersfield
then go gather the stories written
on the coffee shop’s walls in 
uptown New York.
go and gather the fresh air that 
hangs low in the shade of your 
town's Mulberry tree.
go and read the mind numbing 
words of the pretentious authors
of yesteryear
then go and write the stories, bound
by no binding, that you want 
to get lost in.
go and get lost, gather shattered
glass and pennies and tar bubbling
up on beaches.
go and taste the live wire that’s spiced
with the power-grid’s electric current,
just to feel what can’t be seen.
go and gather a callous on each hand 
and each foot, then start stacking them
like fine china in a hutch.
go and gather the aftermath of death and
catch the sour scent of ammonia —
nostrils greedy with life’s end.
go and gather life on a hook,
hang on to it and hold tight to it —
it’s the only one your gonna get, and
there’s no do-overs.

We are barefoot on the pavement
treading lightly towards the sand
You are in mismatched pajamas
Your fingers fit inside my hand

We are molecules and atoms
underneath a world of stars
Neither knowing where we're going
or forgetting where we are

"Mommy take me for a moon walk"
and how could I ever deny
a stroll with you, my heart
tucked beneath this August sky

She is in her waning crescent
summer ending much too soon 
But all my life I'll hold these moments 
When we walked beneath the moon

this tiny little thorn 
keeps snagging me up

and i keep ripping it out
as tenacious as it 

but while ive noticed its
caused a few holes in my sweater

I was getting hot anyway
and this late summer breeze feels nice on my skin 

my cells have been talking
amongst themselves
for a time

they are of a certain opinion
i've only recently decided to accept
from the moment i became

they've been building behind the scenes
things i cannot understand
and have no business trying to

yet each day they go on working
together…

time don't take me
let me stay
where minnows dart 
and light ripples

plant me firmly 
in the silt of 
the riverbed, let me
hold them high above

the water's warm, and your 
skin's so soft
our hands clasped in the
current,  dancing

with this softest breeze
just let us be
time don't take you
away from me 

I once read a book about a girl with anorexia,
I’ve never been very good at forgetting
things like that

or skin and bones, a
waif- like something, sometimes I remember
that I’m supposed to be hungry

I went to a birthday party, all skin
and bones, a waif-like something
she called me

she called me too skinny, simp…

My seeds are growing.

I wasnt sure. 
In fact-
I was mostly sure, 
they weren't. 

Couldn't see them or
feel them. Buried
here beneath this
hallowed ground. 

Beneath where once
I laid down my faith- 
with no sight, 
no hand to hold. 

At times, we may feel
blind. At times, we 
will feel our faith
is lost. 

In thes…

What shape is a star?
I see light beams undulating,
I watch pixels on a voyage,
they travel past just where we are.

I'll count them if yuo're near me.
We can map the constellations,
we can sail across horizons
as I listen to your dreams.

The air is warm with June and twilight.
Our legs weave in and out the grass.
There …

I know the earth is dying but I watched a hawk
      sweep behind flat houses to catch a laggard
      ground mole, carrying it above for its own ripe
      feasting. Blending its body with brown gnarled
      knots, perceptible only by the tilting of its
      h…

I was feeling uninspired, but
could find no inspiration, and
isn't that the way
of wanting.
Having nothing but time, 
boredom slowly creeps,
not unlike these contrary
clovers growing tenaciously
between the garden stones.
Spent half the day 
searching skies, longing
for rain clouds, only to be
drenched
in stubborn sun. …

I hear, before I see.
faint buzzzzzzzz aside
my ear... I sigh,
back again. A bee.

Here to hum about obsessions,
untruths. Instinct kicks
in, and I try to ignore the bee.
It can't hurt me, if I don't hurt it....

Right? But this bee,
is not like the others. It does
not give up. It's legs
already sticky,

he approach…