Science
When a heart breaks,
Its halves weigh more apiece
Than the whole
That is why your chest feels heavy
And why you can’t get off the couch
Even though nothing is weighing you down.
“When a thing is wick…”
– Dickon, The Secret Garden
Once upon a time: There was
a time, there was
a place, a bit of earth and dreams
climbed trellis breath
with ivy fingers sent to sky—
I bury words and messages
(myself), like squirrels hide nuts in Fall,
forced-remission-missives—
malignant sparrows
til they’re fed.
For now,
I bury angry knuckles
in the soil, attempt to spread
these river-rocks
together, in a tryst,
a twist
of something beautiful,
but hidden, sleeping, dead and dying—
corners of my yard
I will (re)build. I will
shape this zen to garden— not retreat;
this is not
retreat.
A healer cannot heal
from an empty grave.
A lock cannot be
broken, without a key.
I don’t miss his callous
misdeeds. Sad old
crank, he’s beyond
recall. Why do I live
backward with tattered
snapshot-stuffed shoeboxes & tawny
maps? I rummage, seeking
what? Am I happy
at 12 in my first
two-piece, a stretchy
black & white jersey with
sassy fringe draped
across my bust? Sophomore,
I am hiding my D-cups under baggy
cardigans & blazers. I tied
them down with a long
swatch of cheesecloth. In the blue-lit
room where he died, decades
passed, my hair brindled
with gray. I held
his translucent hand as his moment
closed. I whispered, you
can let go, wishing
him no harm but feeling no
sadness. No one
should die
alone. I don’t
miss him.
What I learned on the internet
“(Don’t you know this?)
If we would all just repent of our sins
He would make this world
right again”
Self Titled
More and more
Any moor is like
Any other moor, anymore.
Fern Forest
When I build a house
When I
Can I borrow your abacus and saw?
Adorably unaware
The ticky tacky melting
Fanning the crawlspace
A veritable rainantforest
[antrainforest
Lashing with no see ums
Yes? No? Maybe?
Can the dead really live again?
Why do we grow old and die?
Says the pink pamphlet
accompanying the hand written letter
I just found in my mailbox at 1227 am
Romans 15:4 (abridged by Jerielle)
Everything written in the bible is to teach us hope through watching the past struggles of mankind
“Because of the coronavirus I am reaching out to you by letter. (You may not have heard of this crazy god whose shenanigans we’ve come to know and love)
Many people today are uncertain about the future…
Me: Are they usually certain? Damn.
You may have questions
We have answers.
Me: Oh I have questions. I better not look this verse up in Hebrew
So I can translate
“Whatever the reason,
All was put down as it happened
To teach or to learn
That we shall all wait eagerly for what we don’t know
And through exhortation of this recording
Know and experience
True character perfected”
(Translation by Jerielle)
So then,
we all have answers.
Please don’t go away
One day you will forget me
I’ll remember you
– abandonment issues
It wasn’t bad luck that evening.
It was broadcast murder, and that,
Uncontroversial.
But,
Now ain’t the time for your prayers
To that deaf god in heaven, where
Kneeling never quite done it before.
Not like it done today.
Don’t tell me “this is not my America.”
I don’t want to know.
“It was another day at the office baby.
He presented a clear and present threat.
He tried to trick me honey.
He fell, but he was resisting arrest.
Daddy had to make it home- hey!
Life is hard for me as it is.
Who makes sure I make it home?
Hang up the phone!
I’m afraid of their anger, their tricks, their shock, and surprise.
No. When I’m working, my hunches are right.
God watching (he)
I knelt carefully to end this, praying for the threat to subside.
God watching (he)
I knelt ever so gently, then the threat quit play acting, and died.”
Murder on the networks,
Snuff porn flashing on the feed.
This is my America.
They can hardly breathe.
It is later in the evening,
The eight nations begging please.
He is in my head this morning,
I’m not even looking at the feed.
This is my home, this America.
Where history teaches if I do not speak,
They may one day come for me.
Run roughshod over
fallow thoughts until
a furrow deep enough
to sleep in opens,
close the eyes
let fall the jaw
worm into the sub
world where symbols
now have drifted,
the confluence
of rivulets into rivers
churning dreams.
