Why couldn’t you have been
some passing fascination,
a hobby I picked up
and left behind in a dusty corner
when life grew crowded?

Why couldn’t you have been
a phase,
a season,
something I remembered fondly
without feeling the ache
of unfinished conversations?

It would have been easier.
I wouldn’t still catch myself
wondering where you’d be
if I had chosen differently.

I wouldn’t wake from dreams
where everything worked out,
where all the roads that collapsed beneath me
somehow held their weight,
where every sacrifice was finally worth its price.

But you weren’t a fling.
You were the thing.
You were the reason I stayed awake
long after I should have slept.

The reason I emptied my pockets
without complaint.
The reason I believed suffering
could somehow be noble.

I suffered for you.
I carried rejection
like a second shadow.
I swallowed disappointment
until it tasted ordinary.

I watched doors close,
watched promises fade,
watched years disappear
while I kept convincing myself
that one more attempt
might change everything.

And maybe that’s what hurts most.
Not losing you.
Not even leaving you.
It’s knowing I loved you enough
to keep choosing you
long after common sense suggested otherwise.

Part of me wishes
I had never cared so deeply.
Not because you weren’t beautiful.
Because you were.

Because even now,
I still hear echoes of you
in unexpected places.

A familiar sound.
An old photograph.
A memory that takes a swing at me
when my guard is down.
Suddenly, I’m back there,
asking impossible questions:

What if?

What if I had pushed harder?
What if I had waited longer?
What if I had endured one more setback?
What if the story ended
just one chapter too soon?

Now there’s someone else.
Or maybe not someone.
Maybe just another possibility
standing patiently at the edge of my life.

And that’s what terrifies me.
Because I know what love costs.
I know what happens
when admiration becomes devotion.

I know how many nights disappear.
How many comforts get sacrificed.
How many pieces of myself
I voluntarily placed on the altar,
just waiting for something real.

I don’t know if I can survive
watching another dream die in my hands.

So I keep my distance.
I study with fragile hope.
I flirt with the possibility
but refuse to surrender.

Not because I don’t see the beauty.
Not because I don’t feel the pull.
But because I remember you.
Because loving you
taught me something I wish it hadn’t:

The greater the love,
the greater the ghost.

Why did it have to be love?
Why couldn’t you have been something less?
Something forgettable.
Something easy to replace.

If you had just been a brief interest,
I wouldn’t still be carrying you.
And I wouldn’t be so afraid
to fall again.

Miss Rosalie,
Your story has been told
For the girls on the sidelines
Who will never get their
Supernatural arc of justice

Miss Rosalie,
Your scarred limbs
Are masterpieces of men
Smell of grapes and hops
With danger in their hearts

Miss Rosalie,
You may blossom again
In your many lives
But please do not hide
Children need your roots

Blindfolded, tip toeing,
arms stretched to the side for balance
as I creep
through the shattered
egg shells
scattered across the living room floor
scraping between the crevices
of my toes with every inch
waiting for one crunch
to set off the atomic bomb
next door.

            Anger is the natural response to injustice.
            Margaret O’Connor, PhD

Luminous women suffer rejection
of revolution as they challenge  
fathers, husbands, male bosses, 
patriarchal law firm partners
and military officers attuned to domination.    

Courageous women refuse 
marching orders for rows and columns,  
eject “obey” from marriage vows, 
willingly witness and declare  identity.   

So alive, women assault 
gauntlets of authority, tabus and mores, 
ignore pointless rules and ludicrous legislation,
create bedlam among expectations.   
Refuse consent. Broadcast names
of those deaf to our, “No.” 

Authority of “we’ve always done it this way”
sentences us to wailing our grievances at mirrors,  
shrieking in echo chambers.  Ghosts,
we serve on the stairs of time for crimes
of audacious behavior and wonder. —

What’s to be done? 

Increase the volume of our keening. 
Sequester silence; it doesn’t belong.  
Take to the streets bearing pieces
of Amazon cardboard sharpied with wisdom.
Don inflateables, show up at ballot boxes. 
Create new routes. 

We do not deserve anonymity.  

imagine a world where the only hunger is for more,
where no little hands stretch for molding scraps.
Imagine a peace that is never disturbed by war,
where children are safe sitting in parents laps.

Imagine a time where the only cries are first breath,
each child born entering a world that cares they live.
Imagine this all, for I cannot bear the death.
Imagine it, for I have no more grief to give.

For Clementine, Born Feb. 19

To N. Scott Momaday’s “The Delight Song of Tsoai-talee”

May you shine as bright as a star in the dark cold of a February night
May you stand as firm as a granite boulder left by an ancient glacier
May you swim fierce currents with the agility of an otter

May you sing as joyfully as the first robin of spring
May you taste the sweetness of fruit fresh from the branch
May you hear the comfort of rain on the rooftop while lying snug in your bed

May every month bring you the biggest brightest moon of your life
May every year bring you the most bountiful harvest of your life
May every lifetime bring you the fullness of the oceans

May you live in good relationship to the earth
May you live in good relationship to the gods
May you live in good relationship to all that is beautiful

The day was clean, neither ordinary nor tragic.

I saw
you,
stilled by your tall grass lying.
What kind of lover would I be if
I did not yearn to sit beside you,
and rest awhile?
Open a white-picket hymnal to find fate
using his orneriness
to baptize us.
If the water’s warm, we can slip off our suits and
reclaim the nakedness of innocence.  
My willingness to believe
in the healing that comes from cold jelly  
sandwiches with too much peanut butter  
is a testament to the America
I will fight to discover.

It was her lips, he thought, the way spit flew across their pinkness made him squirm.

The 50-year-old divorcée is not a debut performance, 
though it may seem so to those who missed the first run.
Really she’s a revival:
the 19-year-old sub-adult 
now on the big stage.
She dances barefoot 
talks to strangers 
calls her whiskey on the rocks
plans life by the season and band tour dates
Who made her believe there was a better version?
And guess what?
The bills still get paid, the kids still get loved, the toilet still gets scrubbed 
and the laughing! (“too loud”)
and the dreaming! (“too wild”)
They fill the cavernous silences left when the life-let-go
went.
She wasn’t prepared for the role at 19
for the breath-catching urgency of this fleeting and irresistible life
But now!
Now
she’s singing second chances like song lyrics,
feeling the noise and color like fireworks,
holding tight to nothing but 
          what she can hold in her own two hands
Improvisation (“Yes! and…”)
is knowing that we never know
what we can be.
                   
6/4/26

Today
I took a walk and saw
fallen branches
on the ground,
brittle and matted mixtures
of brown leaves, yellow grasses
ceramic pots with mummified stalks
slumped in their lifeless gestures
making macabre garden sculptures
only traces of what once was

All these things did not survive
the deep lake of winter

Now that ice and snow are gone
Spring breezes rock the new growth
and my eyes are drawn upward

In my peripheral vision
I catch what appears to be gold leaf
fluttering on the frames of happiness
I feel from seeing the boughs swaying
plump with rain water
laughing at the sky

The matador gave the dandelion the right of way
But it was a trap
And waited and waited and had a cup of tea
And had his cape pressed too.
The medicine man showed up in his station wagon
Administered the dandelion amphetamines, espresso beans,
Pep talks and ephedrine,
A poem about God carrying people on the beach in pamphlet form
And after 3 more weeks the dandelion crept through
Glorious in its mane of stars
And the matador grabbed his sword and cape
And tiptoed across the asphalt
To maintain the element of surprise
But before he could raise the blade
The groundskeeper erased the dandelion with his turbo mower
Novelty balls dangling from its rear bumper.