we get a look at everything

it’s fair to say

the looking isn’t really the thing

it quells the buzzing

comforting to know

the dust underneath the rug

is in my corner after all

all those bits spurring me on

in my lower moments

my stomach tenses

as they announce who's won the raffle

for the gift card to the coffee shop

not me

but the debris and the legos root for me

nonetheless

For Today

 ship's bow shaft

of winter light

proud at the pointed

intersection and

scalloped by swells

of garbage holds me

in one place long enough

to look

up at the co-ops and the 

glass beyond, my

birthplace and my child's,

and also our present 

and only our present.

For days my father has been

telling me what motivates Macbeth,

or scares him, or delighted King James,

or delights us, or him when he was young,

or me hopefully one day, and how

nothing is more tragic than an evil heart

wrapped in a poetic mind.

We repeat ourselves, he looks pained

and at the ground, "I wish you could have seen

my Macbeth" and so do I.

ship's stern shaft 

of evening light 

flat along the staid 

planned streets, today

was like tomorrow (and tomorrow and...)

without ambition

there is only light, 

my partner's, child's, and my own,

without light there is only

another day in winter

in my birthplace,

in my home.

WHITE LIGHT DAYS

break the blanket’s trust
expect dissonance

hot in a circular time song

like why lullabies are creepy

no illumination, no auras
fear unspools 

in real time 

old dust smell from 

vent heating

dine on foraged ego waffles
from the poltergeist freezer 

we’ve made all these worlds 

to protect us from 
the real one 

thank you

I have such a dear heart.

When she sits down

she lets her legs splay out 

and cocks her head to one side

and smiles like an idiot

like a fool she wanders

through the fruit trees

plucking,

gathering 

gifts to close the gap

between her loved ones 

and a blessing.

I am glad to support her. 

I make miracles for her.

She is a miracle being.

I am a miracle maker.

The both of us make God. 

And with that vision 

of a smile inside me, 

I drift through life.

Defining 

as little as possible.

haiku

 together in greece

eating fish in oil in tin

sea breeze and my girls

This Sadness, revisted

Sadness is a timewarp

What are two years in 

The span of a universe

Or an anthill or a marriage

Nothing 

Two years are a moment ago

And you still hang around 

My neck like a talisman

You were an animal wild

And baring your teeth

Ereshkigal

Now you coo in the rafters

I can hear you when I sing to myself

Too nervous to admit that

I want to hold your thighs

One in each palm
And I want you to see me feel like a kid.
I’ll get so caught up
In joy and exuberance
Wide eyed and quick
Running down the beach with a kite
Trip on my own pant leg
Crash to the sand 
Bruise both knees
And cry in that way that is 
weeping and laughter
Both so intense I might’ve peed my pants
The sea rushing up to shadow 
Me with bubbles.
I could come damp and bewildered
To your arms
And you could greet me
Like parents greet newborns 
Smiling and crying and overjoyed 
Hold me like you know what makes me good. 

Men don’t like to die in front of people

 My mom reminded me
That I have been 
Trying to remember different waters 
For years now. 
My ability to love
Wrapped up in my understanding of ocean
Vs lake vs river. 
I want the zithers of spring 
And a crush that’s
Sure, but I have
The shrug of winter
And fear of being left. 

Winter is something
About death. 
Choosing to exit life
When the brightness
Of a spouse fades. 
But spring could be
The bloom of that choice. 
My great uncle 
In perfect 100 year health
Let go after his
Wife let go
My grandfather only agreed to
Die when
My mom left the room
Would I let myself
Die under the loving
Gaze of others? 

Water Wheel

The solstice is closer than it's been all year

Barreling toward some sort of equilibrium

Despite yesterday, tripping on a snow mound.

This present sense of planlessness is wafting

Down the hall along with the odor of cat hair

Burnt by leaning against the radiator belly-up

February is so swift it'll be long gone when

We notice the dairy bar lines and Belthane fires

New stars come back around and only last month

We paused to greet Orion on the dog walk 

I keep dreaming of spinning in pirouettes scenes 

Water wheels and flour mills and scarlet wine

This whole sky is alive and churning and we are

In it so I'm not gunning towards nothing I'm just

Letting the airs tell me what time it could be  

 

may you be well/ you are not mine to heal

i am being asked

by my past abuser’s 

current abusée

to protect her identity

to forget he told me she 

hit him and pretend

like i don’t know

she woke him up

yelling and screaming

like she used to 

attack me,

drunk and wrathful,

a fury in her eyes

(pain, pain)

being expressed directly

onto us in searing violence

and demolition

i do not show up

to this dynamic

i do not hide what

i know and see

i am getting frustrated

with his guilty texts,

though i know they 

come from fear

(sympathy, dear, sit

with it, you are not

obligated to respond

immediately) i refuse

to protect those who

cause harm to myself

and others at the expense

of denying my truth

and healing in the ways

we need and deserve

and so it is, blessed be

The Done Thing

Infinite want, infinite lack

you get the need created

and you create yourself

like the dozens of selves

of cul-de-sac and close

and avenue and row

or not row or terrace

and place is never where

you'll feel placed especially

if your ahs are ays 

it knows you also

from the gelatine that

held the crab legs and 

tinned tuna together

to the crockpot

and the fondue set

which was replaced

with cheese and pineapple

the spent cocktail sticks

you could snap and

spell out messages to

neighbours on napkins

help me into here

help me see this was

was worth seeking

that I don't want to 

let go of the mower

to destroy umpteen 

hedgerows that

bowed legs in the

summertime and 

screams of foxes at

night and a garden that

refuses water

are the treasured

emblems of a city

that needs but doesn't

want you and a

countryside that will

never take you on nor

the developer's

low level skyline stamp.

 I am an old mountain 
knuckles interlaced
powers folded
so at home in my self
there is just 
self
home
and the fire
that goads me
then sedates me

barefoot in simi valley

17 years after the sweat lodge

i came out to myself

over zoom

as a woman id never met

poured water over my stones

unburdened my fire 

of its heat

a guided dissipation

into a wet and expectant

internet

of dirt and herbs

of human odors

of wavering signals

that distort our faces

in the faint moon of a desk lamp

i felt again

like the boy in his undies

who evaporated in the desert shush

with scorpions and sharpened twigs

witness to the tender soled

the order of pigeons

whats the rule 

about telephone lines

never straddle two wires

don't crowd the crows

sneakers means memorium

and though the poles aren't crucifixes

the fastest growing religion

is a father's day check-in

christ knows he thinks pigeons

are the ghosts of homing

hes awful sorry

for whats become of brooklyn

for small talk

passing the phone to mommy

for how quickly words dissociate

how we proselytize immediacy

for how have we forsaken

an earth that suffers

a crown of electrified thorns

what to bring to death valley

as the last log

burned to coals

the disappointment of ash

stalled me like red

break lights in a traffic jam

i waited all night

for an apology

an acknowledgement

that in the lanes of friendship

sometimes the distracted veer

transgress a median

a joke crashes headlong

into a family history

are you not impacted

are you not concussed 

is there an excuse

worth a windshield 

it seems you regret only

the slowdown