Posts for June 1, 2026

i always thought that when
the revolution came
i would be among
the ones
dancing 

i thought i would be fearless
arms wide open spinning
and spinning jumping 
screaming just like
the last time

and the time before that
and that other time- especially
that time i thought i actually knew
something- actually understood
something 

knew that it wasn’t just me and
that we’d all been fed lies and
that there were cannibals among us  

i once believed i could see them and that
perhaps- i could love them
before they killed us all-  you know like
love them out of their hate

now wouldn’t that have been
a great reason to dance?

You need gills to breathe in air like this.
June One and already there is too much
moisture pooling on necks and upper lips,
transforming hair into static clouds.
Already mosquito sting on ankle, raised
welts on tender flesh. Already the world around me
feels too close. Also, already,
lighting bugs, those impossible bright blimps.
Already peony and daylily, lavender
and hydrangea. Already bullfrog
and the white-tailed deer. Already my best friend’s
three year old, who never wants our walk to end,
small hand hot and sticky in mine.
I will gladly grow gills, if that’s what it takes.
I will evolve, rainbow scales replacing skin,
transparent eyelidsthat shnick into place
as I wade through the dampness.
I will amphibian. Crustacean.
I will do what it takes to love
every bit of this hot green world.

There were rules for everything.

Hemlines.
Tongues.
Eyes.
Hands.

The body itself felt like a thing to apologize for.
At fourteen, she learned to cross her legs
before she learned that desire had a name.
Learned that holiness meant shrinking—voice lowered,
skirts lengthened,
hunger hidden beneath polite smiles
and folded church bulletins.
The women called it virtue.
But no one warned her
that womanhood arrives like a lit match.

Quiet at first.

Then suddenly,
everything was capable of burning.
She felt it in fragments—
the heat in her stomach
when a boy she should not want
rested his hand against the small of her back,
the dangerous flutter beneath her ribs
when someone looked at her
like she was more than a soul to be managed.

She prayed after every wanting.
Head bowed.
Knees bruised against carpet.
But heaven remained terribly silent
about the fact that
Eve was made from living flesh,
not marble.

That bodies are not sins- they are instruments.

Still,
shame followed her like scripture memorized too young.
She carried it into marriage.
Into motherhood-
into the exhaustion
of becoming necessary to everyone.

She learned how to nurse a child
while starving herself.
How to make dinner,
fold laundry,
smile in photographs,
and silence the part of her
that still ached to be touched
like something sacred instead of useful.

No one speaks about the loneliness of women
raised to believe their longing makes them dangerous.
Or how many mothers stand at sinks
with holy water hands
and wildfire hearts.
She spent years believing
good women did not ache.
Did not fantasize.
Did not grieve the lives
they almost chose.

But the truth arrived slowly—through poetry,
through heartbreak,
through betrayal,
through healing,
through the unbearable relief
of being seen fully
by another human being
and not struck dead for it.

Desire, she realized,
was never the opposite of holiness.
Perhaps it was proof of it.
What is more divinethan a body capable of love?
What is more human
than wanting closeness?
What is prayer,
if not a yearning directed upward?
And maybe that is why
the saints always looked aflame in paintings.
Maybe devotion
has always resembled fire.
Maybe every woman
who has ever stood trembling
between purity and hunger was never broken.
Only burning.

Because holy things burn too.

We had been warned about the Monet

by the sandy, yet soft, voice in the foyer

who warned us that we did not have enough

time to appreciate any one of the works

these masters had swallowed years with,

with the lingering hour before 

the halls darkened for another storm-kissed night.

Maybe I uncovered my own oversight

at not thinking that I could find

a Monet, a Manet, a Seurat, or a Pissaro

within the bounds of the city

where boundaries and states lose distinction

somewhere between flatness and grass.

Seeing a Van Gogh mixed in with the rest

convinced me even more 

that some unexpected places and some expected times

align enough to accentuate in relief

what hangs in front of me for days and days,

even if only for two weeks a year.

We may not ask to find 

the works of art 

museums allow us to see on display;

the same could be said 

for the people we find ourselves with,

beautiful Americans from everywhere and nowhere

creating a life more color than water,

yet I enjoy their stories far more

than my own landscape lost

among dozens of the same sort of satisfying strife. 

Words are cannon.
Light the fuse.

Manifestation of spring
comes through snow and storm,
through trials and tribulations
it arrives resilient and strong
being and feeling,
with memory and purpose

It appears unwithered and determined
everything from the beginning
crocus, cherry blossoms, and daisies
calls to its late blooming brothers
goldenrods, hydrangeas, & marigolds,

to push into summer with armor
not dying or falling short into
autumn’s vengeance on green,
and even then only lay sentry
to the lull of hibernation and
winter’s snow-covered fortress

Intentional and patient
under a silver moon
for its turn to bloom

Bright and vibrant
petal and stalk,
grass and trees,
sure and kind,
in praise and glory

Awe-inspiring, yet humble
to creator and creation
through endurance and season

Bigfoot is a feminist at heart.

I mean his mama?

You should’ve seen her.

Tough as nails

with a spirit somehow still so gentle.
She taught Bigfoot how to read a room, how to never linger where you don’t feel welcome

because after all, friendly fire 
still burns. 

All those years that went by, when  nobody was looking for her?

She’d whisper a silent prayer.

Because man

all she wanted to do is be seen clearly

but how nice was the peace of not being found ?

Once, she dreamed she had a name 
that echoed through the forest 
and maybe she used to, 
years before her silence felt like home. 

But  now? Now she is Bigfoot’s mama. 
The legend that birthed a legend. 

Hello

Hello

Hello yes
Yes I am ready to order

I would like

I would like a um

Umm

Do you all still have the one with bacon
Oh ok, but you had it yesterday
That don’t make no sense

That’s Fine, um

Um, sorry, just um

Um

Ok, I’ll take the the
#5 please
With no pickles or onions
Ketchup and cheese only please
Oh and can you add bacon on the side

Oh yeah, your right, my bad
I’m sorry

And can I get a large coke 

Coke

A Coke

Coca Cola

And a large fry
Yes, yes that’s correct
Thank you

Every winter I wake and wait. 

Maybe this year no frost,

Holding my flowers for the right moment.

That they’ll flourish and grow, being courted and caressed by fluttered wings: wasps, beetles, birds, and bees.

To grow into that plump ripe fruit that falls

And feasted upon by my adopted children

letting them carrying motes of my soul

So that my progeny may grown on across our home

Just dreaming that I may be more,

More than just shade in the summer heat.

More than and highway for the

crawling insects whose lifespan are but a blink to me.

More than a pretty shelter in a storm

Fretting that I may be struck by the sky and this Shelter fall.

Not becoming an axe striking down those that trusted my canopy.

More than a pretty carpet of wrinkled gold, crackled brown, and sunset reds falling to be a discarded garment by my roots as I meet the northern winds naked and asleep.

Please let me time it right this year

Summer wheeled in
all red white and blue handlebar streamers
and baseball cards clicking in her spokes
nickels and dimes jingling in her pocket
to spend on lunch counter cherry Cokes

Summer stretched days out longer than a Hotwheels racetrack set
melted rainbows onto t-shirts with popsicles
made dares to jump homemade ramps and eat sweet clover 
At dusk her presence was permission to dangle bath-damp legs
from the front porch swing for an extra half-hour