despair—
my poor plant babies, encrusted with warfare!
is this the cost of sunlight children?
must i be doomed to these stupid pests who fly up my nose while i write poetry because i swear to GOD i will BURN THIS HOUSE DOWN.
anyways…
someone please tell me how to get rid of fungus gnats,
or else it will be my sanity that splats.
Isn’t the heart soft?
or, it’s supposed to be
oh, God, isn’t it supposed to be?
Mine’s a rock, a weight
not just in my chest but
in all the other non-soft bits of me, too—
Do they have hands? claws, fists
Mine does, I think, and if not
then what’s this feeling?
Choking from the inside out then
choking from the outside in and
I know my blood is pumping
I can hear it feel it taste it
Why does it hurt so bad?
make me so afraid?
If my own heart fights my own ribcage. . .
is it a fight? or the desperation of a beached shark?
God, I don’t know.
The confusion doesn’t have hands but
crawls through me like spilled wine,
softens my thoughts, makes me
slow and small and meek
just like everything else about me
Right?
What excuses have I ever needed to be afraid?
I wish I could stay in bed all day
God, I wish I never had to get up again
why are the walls closing in on me and
I know I should want to make changes
do something anything to get out of this but. . .
Why? I can’t find any reasons, any reasons,
even when they surround me,
flies and maggots and sand on the corpse
making the corpse
preparing for it to be a corpse
All the hands and eyes touching
and watching as the tide runs away
from me, away from me—
Who should know—
oh, to be so ungrateful.
oh, to never have known it as ungratefulness.
To whom do I owe this gratitude?
To whom should I pay my respects?
I hate how I feel all the time but
how else should I feel?
Am I allowed to feel
better, different, bigger?
I don’t want to—do I?
the terror runs right through me
in the empty hallways I still dream of
past every room of mistake and regret
All of it, made a home in me
with all the hurt and shittiness and I hate it
my heart hurts and pounds and beats
aren’t I so lucky
so reliable, so alive
so reliable, so haunting
Too fast inside, too slow out
and the fear has a hold on me
familiar and it makes the happiness
look less like a future and more like a nightmare
Don’t aim too high and you won’t be disappointed.
Don’t aim at all and you won’t be anything.
I look at her
the girl I was
and stroke her hair away from her face
I thank her for all she did for me
to get me here
I know she is not who I am now.
I know we would disagree
Still, I am glad she kept her eye on our Northern Star.
without her perseverance, I would not have found me
I looked up
at our bathing suits drying on the shower curtain rod
and realized
i’ve never been living in your shadow.
My perfume went missing
but I never searched for it for it
because I knew where it was.
I always implicitly trusted that you would give it back.
You were hungry and cold
so I brought you inside,
bundled you in my favorite quilt,
and cooked a gourmet spread.
I watched man after man
throw roses in your direction
and it made me smile
to know that my shoulders you stood on were doing you some good.
Your footprints
left welts,
but it didn’t matter
as long as you were happy.
I don’t know why I didn’t expect it
when you gutted me in the middle of the night.
I watched fondly with fading vision
as you looked through my possessions before leaving with a full bag.
the things you love
(have worried smooth with pining pensive handling)
(have fed you like nectar in the fearful searing wastes)
(have tied you wrist to wrist to soul to the ones who went ahead
and lie ahead and lie their necks on the line for you)
don’t even fit in these assholes’ junk drawers
I passed him once—
a figure alone
on a weathered bench,
its wood worn smooth
by time and tears.
He sat beneath a tree
that bowed not from age,
but as if it were practicing humility.
Casting a shadow of comfort and trust.
His eyes—soft as moonlight.
His hands—still as waiting.
Time paused.
A breeze rolled in,
light and slow,
and for a second,
I didn’t feel the need to rush
He smiled
like someone expecting me,
yet asking nothing.
No demands.
Only room—
and rest.
So I sat.
He spoke no words,
but silence itself leaned in.
It had a heartbeat,
and I— I was learning to listen.
I spoke of small things—
weather, work,
my love for the forgotten 90s.
Then deeper currents surfaced—
fears, longings,
the ghosts of regrets,
and blessings I had never
bothered to count.
He never interrupted.
Never corrected.
Only stayed—
present,
like mercy wrapped in skin.
All the while,
a thought whispered low:
He knows me.
Not in pieces—
in wholeness.
As one who’s walked
every crooked path
and still calls it beautiful.
I told him I doubted.
That I felt small.
That prayer,
some days,
felt like shouting into fog.
Still,
he smiled.
And I went on—
The more I unraveled,
the lighter I felt.
Like unpacking
a life I’d left buried,
finding treasure
hidden beneath
years of ache and distress.
A breath escaped—
deep and clean.
And I saw it:
I hadn’t just recited my life.
I had relived it—
bathed in memory,
washed in grace.
It felt like…
prayer.
When I turned
to thank him,
only the bench remained.
Empty.
The breeze—
soft, soothing—
brushed my face.
And somewhere inside it,
a whisper:
“Maybe all He ever wanted…
was your heart.”
I rose,
chills found their
way to the surface
of my skin.
Then wondered—
Had I just spent the afternoon
talking to…Him?
It’s weightlessness
Lay heavy on my mind
Like a feather
Drifted down from some
Worn catechism
Lain out before me
Testing my faith
Charting my plight.
How can one struggle
With only a thought
So fleeting
That it hardly seems real?
The purpose, too,
What purpose except
To help me see things
In the proper light and
Give my determination
Ever stronger will
To hold on to my beliefs
And bury myself
In what I deem as right?
And must I carry
This heavy thought,
(So weightless in my hand)
Forever in this
Sleepless night?
a black bear–
not a cub
but not full-grown,
descends the bank
toward the lake’s edge.
notices us.
stops.
stares as we motor
closer. turns.
scampers
into thick woods.
nights I inhale
a glimpse
of wildness
prowling the edge
of dreams–
no panda
munching bamboo
no Asian bear
with healing powers
but a Stygian fur phantom
lumbers on all fours
tries to possess me.
I nest deep
into my quilt,
will it to flee,
to find old growth
and delight–
undistracted by humans.
somewhere it can’t frighten me
The natural order is anything but
natural, if it is orderly,
because nature is chaotic
and so disorganized
we feel compelled to squeeze
it into some recognizable
shape: a list, a chart, a table,
a timeline, even a tree
is preferable to the wild
and irresponsible proliferation
of life forms and forces
all around us.
