Why do we bother
to teach?
It is difficult to understand
in 2026, but unmasked–
even celebrated – the Piper
unapologetically sending
faithful to the hell
of hypocrisy.
Stymied by the blatant
lies swallowed,
without salt
or sugar, but
with a desperate
smile.
Today I actually looked at you
Not the parts within
Because I’ve always seen how ugly that is
But the thinness of your lips
A small mole that dots the underside of your lower lip
The grayish tan bags hanging fat and loose under your blue eyes
But blue that is somehow muddied
Encircled by lighting bolts of red veins
Probably from all the weed
Your face is hollow but somehow still full
And your face is always cast down
Maybe that’s your internalized shame materializing itself into your physical realm or your lack of appreciation for self because you know how much of a low life you are?
But you are not attractive
And I don’t like you, I actually can’t stand you
Your hands are rough against my knee
But not calloused
Full of unwanted and unsatisfactory friction
You smell like my mouthwash that you quickly spat out
Because you thought you were going to kiss me
I hope that mouthwash burnt your tongue because of your assumption
I’m so glad that every time I am near you I bore easily
Because it makes me realize how much I never actually wanted you
Because I actually love myself so fucking much
That I would never subject myself to dangers that are you
The lack of consideration that makes your character
Your blatant inability to emote and simply care
I’m in this life with me for as long as she is with me
And that does not and will never include you again
they will tell you to stay
hold on because it will get better.
i will tell you the truth of it;
it may not- may never be better
it may even get worse, as i know it can
but, you will learn how to hold on
that suffering is also living
you may muddle through, never reaching another side
you will still survive.
you will still wake in the morning, so will the sun
you will go to bed alongside the moon
the wind will still blow, the sea still wave
there will be days it rains, ensuring flowers bloom tomorrow
you will still survive.
writers will still write
actors will still put on plays, maybe one will inspire you
there will be art to be made- even more of it to see
it may never be better
but even as it worsens,
the days still come and you still survive,
knowing you can again.
Fretty chervil is what Hopkins calls
the green entanglement
that seeks to strangle
everything straight
in my lawn or garden.
I just think it’s Kentucky
reclaiming its own.
In winter’s grasp, where silence reigns,
I wander through the cold remains.
A world enshrouded, pale and stark,
each breath a ghost, each step a mark.
Snowflakes fall, like whispered signs,
veiling truths in frosted lies.
Beneath the ice, a world concealed,
where restless spirits are revealed;
they waltz in darkness, a spectral dance,
in winter’s grip, they find their chance.
With every flake that falls like tears,
I face the shadows of my fears.
So here I stand, a girl alone,
in nature’s vice, my heart of stone;
the winter winds, they sing my name,
a haunting lullaby of blame.
In my dream, I’m back in the classroom,
this time as a visiting author. To get the room quiet,
the teacher demands order, her strategy—shame.
She focuses on a particular student, a boy, who is trying
his earnest to comply; she berates him for his trying.
The rest of the class mimics her, chanting:
Shame! Shame! Shame! And the boy is crushed,
just crushed. Which is when I ask myself,
What is mine to do? I’m just a visitor, after all, but
how can I talk about writing when all I feel is shame—
for the boy, for the children, for the teacher, myself?
That’s when the tingling starts,
this static, seizing me, charging me,
sizzling through every vein.
I know what you’re thinking: that my body was falling asleep,
and I was just dreaming, but no, this was real. My body
in that room was real, and there was no choice, not really—
no turning back, no leaving—I knew I would speak,
even if it meant never visiting another classroom again,
I would speak, and I did, into that room resoundingly:
Where shame lives, nobody learns
and everyone went still
the boy, the children, the teacher, my self
and everyone was lifted.
The fly did its swan dives and pirouettes
All the while bewitching with its little kazoo
And I sat there basted in sweat and hating its guts
Perhaps because I never had the stick-to-itiveness
To learn a musical instrument
And on the dance floor I’m burdened
With two left feet, or perhaps because I knew
If I smelled it close it would
Smell like death or I realized
It would always win a tickle fight.
I found myself clapping for it nonetheless.
I have wasted my life.
When I slow down enough to observe,
I notice inside my head a mood of
frantic activity, as though
there’s never enough time.
But as I look out the window, I see
a world in slow motion. The tall grasses
at the end of the canal stand in peace,
soaking in the sun, Spanish moss
hanging from the live oak, drifts
in the breeze. A gentle motion
in the leaves of my new tree.
Even the birds and turtles seem
to be taking the day off. Not
a one in sight.
