Posts for June 13, 2025

The kitten sleeps agin’ an indigo dyed mudcloth curtain
Her form presses her shape into it so well
I put my finger to the form, to see if she’s still inside it
And it pops

I cracked my foot a few days ago
on a heavy cast iron stool base leg
I’ve had to sleep with it propped on a rolled towel
So I can properly roll around

But I put it in a boot
and it was fine to pick up prints and altered clothes
And checks
A storm blew over while out on New Circle 
Another curtain of black flapping ominously
it swirled over the top half of the sky
against a white backdrop
like a pre-oz transport waits to be boarded

later,
A forceful, raging storm of jazz at the Loudoun House
I wanted to weep looking at the trees there
I spoke to them and marveled at them aloud
I was also weeping as the music coursed through me
dancing as ecstatically as I could in half a seza

Two young children joined the band
One was the girl next to me
who had been twirling as hard as she could in limited space
The puppet made music too, 
which was the height of clever

I piled smoked oysters high on a goat cheese sumac sprinkled cracker
and made lentil chorizo stew with pan pickles
I sipped a guava soda and decided
I was definitely inside of a Kandinsky painting
Mon beau jumelle, il gardait toujours l’air serieux
Mais elle s’est sentie mieux
appuyer sur tout les touches

Junctions, intersections, and convergences alike,
we expect the events that shape our lives
will occur at places as heavy as our hearts.
We don’t expect they will take place 
at a McDonald’s
on a day
where the sky struggles not to sob
where the only colors you remember
mixed with the silver soft-serve of the city
are of the personalities of the people you are with.
And it is only then that we learn
that the absurd locations with which we mark our passings
have no more meaning
than we give them. 
The fact that we are there with each other
is more than enough to make
a McDonald’s into a mansion
by marking a memory
as momentous
with cookies and kindness.

Metaphysical reader 

If you told them all
What you were really thinking 
They would all leave you

The bus ride home
the sights
and sounds
the people
and the smells

The sound of money
in the till 
clinking 
dropping down 
as each passenger

Pays his fare
and heads for home
and the welcome
smells of cabbage 
boiling on the stove

on the eve of
Armageddon no escape…
just basketball 

I asked my Turkish coworker
if this is what it was like
when Turkey became a dictatorship. 
She said it’s been faster.

To flee your country
leaving behind friends, 
family, 
everything you’ve ever known. 
Only to find yourself back where you began. 

I don’t think more time
would make this less terrifying.

It began the day I left the bed unmade—

sheets tangled like memory,

sunlight kissing the curve of my hip

as I sipped my coffee still remembering him.

I stopped tying my hair back.

Let it fall—wild and unbrushed,

a crown of soft defiance.

I wore silk robes that slipped off one shoulder,

wore perfume even when I stayed home,

and walked barefoot

until the soles of my feet knew every crack in the kitchen tile

like a prayer.

I started singing to the herbs as I clipped them,

whispering into the steam of boiling pasta,

licking olive oil from my fingers

without shame.

I danced while dusting.

Cried in the bathtub.

Read poetry at the stove

with one hand stirring the sauce,

the other tucked against my thigh—

And he—

he didn’t ask me to quiet.

Didn’t shame the echo in my laughter,

the bite in my voice,

or the way I come undone.

He watched me bloom with something between reverence and heat,

like a man seeing fire for the first time

and knowing not to put it out.

I am no longer obedient.

I am deliberate.

Unruly.

Ripe.

And loved,

not despite it—

but because I am.

Picking up blind buy Criterions for

five bucks a piece,

scrolling through streaming services

and bookmarking all the movies

I eventually want to watch,

snatching up ebooks and audiobooks

at discount prices.

I’m still running from eternity

and boredom,

building an endlessness I can live with,

can live inside.

Keep your heaven full of

harp playing hypocrites.

I’ll wait out the end of time

in my media collection.

What I love:
       my daughters 
       my father 
       my siblings and their families 
       my students 
       my friends 

What I wish:
       for love
       for peace
       for time
       for tolerance 
       for acceptance 

What inspires me
        is Art
        is writing 
        is music
        is gratefulness 
        is love 

        6/13/25
         KW