At a minimum
I know I can do
what they’re asking me to do
will it ever be enough?
can’t hardly remember
what the inside of a bedroom
is supposed to look like anymore
or feel like
can’t imagine numbing
myself to deep yearning
if only for a night
can’t even properly picture myself
naked
been lucid dreaming more
after a perspicacious mind
caught on to a cruel pattern
of only finding love
in REM sleep
spending all day
thinking about
someone who doesn’t exist
looking at a girl a little too long because
she reminds me
of that someone
to the point of forgetting
not to stare
then choosing not to try
saying hello
not wanting to get involved
in anything with anyone
for the potential of pain
drama
fuck off if you think it’s thinking too much
looking for other
best parts of the day
drinks with friends
movies and games
dearly cherished
even if none of it
completely nullifies
all this hurt
not allowing
such romantic dissatisfaction
to be so closely tied
with identity
let’s fly in lucid dreams instead
almost free
from any kind of desire
if not for living in fear
of my mailbox
the reply
to a letter
sent a month ago
one who could have changed everything
one who could still change everything
but if not her
nobody is okay
there’s a wealth
of other people to care about
they will carry the seasons over
from mutual greetings with tomorrow
to warm goodnights with perfect contentment
peace in loneliness
most
of her is absent
simply
an angelic
face
a dove
above
a nun’s headdress
praying hands
a sword to the left
of the viewer
(to the upper right)
a chalice
supported
by an anonymous
right hand
a touch of gold
a bit of red
suggesting
definition
Ekphrastic: “untitled,” Maeve Fiach (graphite, ink, and goldleaf on paper), 2025
And Lord I have prayed
give me give me give me
what I want
a gluttonous mantra
ownership / having / holding
a ring and a hand warm in my own
Lord give me what I want
a softer reality
an umbrella in the rain
shielding me from the flood
a passenger seat
someone to be thankful for
apricot is the shot in the dark
of the light of the trees, heavy and hot is the sun
that big ball or blot, depends on how you see
soupy is the day that i dare rue
this morning i liken to launch, cannonball
through the
stew
far and few
foot strikes upon the earth
i delight in sounds of songbirds
molted melting melody that pleases the Lord
in tandem with
a high-strung
harmony
that sings in my grace-filled
bones
for the little wrens i deign to give wide berth
those wing’d ones who decide to chew
worms
in the crosshairs of a crosswalk
blinking angry
the red hand
that causes
pause
try i do to wave at each unassuming face encountered; the fast walkers, the construction workers, the beggar on the corner, the child in the basket. i don’t want them to think runners are mean. i notice the others like me—fists pumping, slicing through the atmosphere in a rhythm i’ve yet to fully understand. we’re both barreling through the salty sultry summer air, flying towards whatever designated finish line we’ve designed in our primal auto-pilot minds.
i was taught
on your knees
hands together
eyes closed
ends in amen
now i pray to the trees
by touching their leaves as i
pass by. thanking them
for life
now i pray to the soil
by scrunching my toes
in mud after rainfall
thanking it for grounding me
now i pray to the rain
by dancing in the drops
coming in, soaking wet,
to a cup of warm coffee
not created without the water
mother nature provides
i’m grateful for the sunshine
on my pale, freckled skin
for the wind blowing
through my hair
for the change the moon
brings along with them
for the opportunities
the ocean hides in their
waves. for the life of me
the universe grants
i am grateful for the things
unseen too. the will to keep on,
the love that surrounds me like a hug,
the self compassion granted to me
by something bigger than me
beyond my understanding
but i am still grateful
I used to love thunderstorms –
watch them roll in from the west
First Paducah
then Hopkinsville
then home.
Daddy and I would sit on the front porch swing
on summer afternoons and wait
as the clouds grew large on the horizon
Wait for the air to cool, and the smell
of rain to blow in before the storm.
Wait for the approaching rain
to fill our lungs with mist and thunder.
beauty beauty . . . silence settles
you touch me there
you invite my song
now there is
silence
going going g
o
n
e
I wake and breathe in the thick air of uncertainty that envelopes me.
The weather flip-flops from sunshine to gloom.
The news forecasts perpetual doom,
and so does my mood.
As fragile as the annealed glass:
global affairs,
peace,
public health,
safety,
sanity. . .
All one careless graze away
from crumbling into countless tiny shards.
magic slumber
dreamless days
walking with shadows
I conjure
from the spellbound
playing forbidden tunes
on forbidden pipes
a magic age
scribbled on cake
and candles and
buttercream roses
rancid and sweet
in summer’s heat
while drums beat
dancing feet
on solstice gathers
the young who spin
grateful again
what I lost
bit by bit
fingers trace lines
around eyes
around smiles
new candles
will flicker
in the wind
