Depression
I just want to sleep.
today
tomorrow
next week
next month
next year.
I have no FOMO.
Instead I have FOA.
Fear Of Attending.
I just want to sleep.
today
tomorrow
next week
next month
next year.
I have no FOMO.
Instead I have FOA.
Fear Of Attending.
A collective of women assumed
an adventure of choice
for all seasons and engaged in writing
and sharing their wisdom
as they turned, turned, turned
in the sun, in the cover of the moon,
in their silken robes with swirls of satin
ribbons blowing around them, like the
cascading myrtle swaying
from the ancient portico
that stood outside their meeting room,
a humble reminder of the peace
they craved like sweet honey on
warm bread.
Heads covered in golden saffron dyed scarves
they assembled in secret, speaking in whispers
that floated across the universe. The women
sat in a circle on a dirt floor and wrote the
Book of Ecclesiastes.
Grace etched out the words that flowed from
caring hands and elegant minds onto
perfectly bespoken papyrus, in a
realization of changing times
that challenged the olive tree to flower,
the red-tailed hawk to soar above
transcendental echoes. They crafted
their words with ambivalent meanings,
perpetual motion, wiser than Solomon.
When finished the women knew
it was time to dance under the
wide brimmed cedar.
tucked into a used copy
of Elizabeth Strout’s novel
“Anything is Possible”
The previous owner of the book
left a notecard stuck in the middle
of the story, as if
they they gave up on finishing—
and on the card, in red ballpoint
loopy cursive:
1. What’s the plan?
2. What’s the prognosis?
3. Will heart recover?
Above the list, an illustration
of a blue butterfly
alongside a striped bee on a daisy
down below, beneath the word “recover”
a tiny watercolor of a golden-breasted
Evening Grosbeck
whose numbers have plummeted
by 92 percent since 1970.
Will heart recover?
There is a red apple,
hanging low
and alone
on a naked branch
of an aged, diseased
William’s Pride Apple tree.
From the porch
it looks perfect,
tempting me to walk
in flip flops,
across the overgrown
tick and chigger
infested lawn.
Robin eats a juicy, fat worm in the grass
Red shouldered hawk, kee-aahs as it circles above
A brown haired child laughs while swining
Life being what it is, unaware
Of danger lurking Fascism creeping,
Creeping, creeping ever closer
While humans pretend
Pretend, pretend
Until the knocking At the door
We were so close
Johnny removes the footrest
from his older brother’s wheelchair
allowing him to drop his foot to the floor
preparing to slide himself into bed.
I could taste it.
Johnny removes the armrest
slides it under the desk & reaches for
the sliding board.
That sucks, Donnie says
leaning left lifting slightly
Johnny pushing the sliding board underneath
leaving half on the wheelchair & half
on the bed already lowered as far as it
would go creating a downward movement
making it easier for sliding from wheelchair to bed.
Same thing happened to me in football my senior year
Donnie places his hands on each side of his thighs, heaves,
pushes, then slides onto the bed & quickly braces himself
while Johnny picks up his legs at the ankles & swings
them up onto the bed. Donnie leans back on his elbows.
I can’t believe we let ‘em fuckin’ score in the last two minutes
Donnie’s legs shake
becoming still he lowers himself onto his pillow
Johnny unlaces old hiking boots, scuffed
from before the accident, finds
the remote & places it beside the bed.
We were so close.
he plops down in the wheelchair
surfs a few moments
then heads to bed.
They said every piece has its place—
but I never clicked in quite right.
Edges just shy of snug,
colors a shade too light.
I watched the picture take shape
while I lingered near the lid,
not missing, not mistaken,
just… waiting to be amid.
They whispered, “Must be from another box,”
but I never took offense.
Because deep down, I believed
I held a quiet sense.
Maybe I’m not part of their scene—
a farmhouse or sky so wide.
Maybe I’m from a future frame,
a puzzle not yet tired.
Because who says wholeness
can only look one way?
I might be the start of something new—
a sunrise on its way.
So I’ll rest with patience,
not lost, just not yet placed—
a piece that doesn’t finish the picture,
but starts one full of grace.
