Posts for June 3, 2026 (page 2)

The black dog that could suffer
on a hot summer’s day
instead sprawls next to an AC vent
waiting for the cheese tax to be paid.
Out of a Saint’s surprise litter,
she did not languish in a shelter
nor has she haunted any moors,
but at night we do scare each other
should I shuffle into her,
a shadow on my bedroom floor.

Not a creature of myth or magic or lore,
she is nonetheless my guardian–
albeit under my desk during thunderstorms–
And trusted judge! my black dog, of all house guests,
allowing only those of good intention
to scratch the white star on her chest.

Her face was hot with heat
From the embarrassment she felt
Being the last to know
She hated these moments
Knew them all too well
Sitting quietly in defeat
Not for long
Like the ocean tides
Good things come and good things go
Thinking about the sand that finds it way everywhere after a day at the beach
She is determined to find success one grain at a time.

a cantankerous old soul
a bad tempered sort
could be someone’s grandfather
or maybe an old elementary
school teacher who made you
memorize a poem by Robert Frost.
an opinionated overbearing character
me before my morning coffee

wears mules to work because she wore out her Doc Martens.
She wakes up late and eats out. May is an orange sign in the yard.
She carries around obsidian and tells you her dog died. May

is mold in the coffee pot. She’s pretzel plate and hummus
with sparkling lemonade. May is tired, she gets eight hours, but
that doesn’t make up for the past three years. May is girl boss,

lean in, blue no matter who. May stops for every baby bunny,
wonders if her boyfriend is tired of it. She doesn’t know if a
winter lamb is a real thing, she hopes not.

May is my massage therapist asking how I carry around these
things. I don’t know, they’re heavy. I’m glad she’s here, but fuck,
how do we carry any of this?

3 places I can drive
without GPS are:

1. my house
the safest place
a sanctuary
covered by cat hair

2. my school
a necessity
very little turns
even less parking

3. Emma’s house
I always find myself
making the left turn
to her labyrinth 

A professor once told me that, sometimes, after a tornado sweeps all the leaves off a tree, the tree thinks winter has come and no matter what season, it begins again with spring—bright blooms unfolding upon the earth once more, tenacious as time itself.

Step 1: Look at the trees.

Step 2: Know that nothing is permanent.

Step 3: Sit in the kindness that makes the world so beautiful and so terrible.

I always look out for your white fur
dusted gray from sunning on the ground,
your black ears waiting for birdsong,
and your pale green eyes with the wisdom
only a neighbor who moved in long before me could possess.

Pulled from the ceramic case

Narled roots all intertwined

Old habits needing breaking for new growth

A baptism of new water to wash

the soil  That clings like memories

Wasted terroir no longer of service

To the blooms needed

The blooms to come

New pot

Cozy but still nice

Home to loam

Soft like memory foam

Imprints of intimate nights and long conversations

Snipped away the brown

The dead and dying limbs

That no longer served a new purpose

A life anew

And the sun shining still

When the sun sets in the distance,
we admire the clouds scattered
across our little corner of the world.
For a few moments, the clouds appear
to be made of cotton candy with pink
swirls nearly covering the diminishing
blue leftover from the day. It was a
beautiful sight and the sun set further
as we settled into bed for a long night’s
rest, dreaming of tomorrow’s light.

Starla guides a gold-eyed glare
through my eyes my brain my gut,
her haunches crouch in defiant 
protestation. She releases
a hot stream of urine
Soaking deep into 
the duvet the sheets the mattress &
Does. Not. Stop. until she’s
                                                                    satisfied

She knows some lessons mustn’t be rushed. 
She speaks her lectures in full sentences.