Posts for June 13, 2026 (page 8)

I picked out a cozy tie-dye sundress,
anticipating a fun summer day.

I got to the shower
and shaved my legs,
praying my toddler doesn’t stuff my dress
in the toilet
or into the shower with me.

She shouts with glee
in a gibberish only I translate.

It’s midday.
I ask the baby,
Do you want to go outside to play?

We trudge to the garden,
awaiting fresh vegetables and herbs.

With a baby on my hip,
I dip and pick
a bud of lavender.

In that moment,
I realize
I’ve never had a home
where I could plant flowers
directly into the dirt.

I hold the bud to my nose,
and the scent makes my heart hurt.

I gently pull the babe in for a squeeze
and gift her the lavender
that spoke to me.

“Look! The wages you failed to pay the workers who mowed your fields are crying out against you. The cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord Almighty.” – James 5:4

I’d like to confess a crime

I have a body, and my body needs food to survive, and to survive I must work, but to work I must survive, and so I am at work and I am hungry and I cannot leave and there is food in the fridge here anyway, so I take it and eat it and my body survives so that my body can work and keep surviving. 

But there was a sign on the food in the fridge that said Do Not Take. It did not say This Is Amy’s or Saving For Later. Cold cuts from an already over meeting that could’ve been an email, sweaty and wilted cheddar next to slimy sliced ham. I took two slices of each, for a classic Ham & Cheese on Hand sandwich.

You caught me satisfying a biological necessity in a body I did not consent to control so that I could keep working while following as many of your rules as I could and now I have a professional improvement plan. Now I am a thief, only because we start from Thou Shall Not Steal and work backwards, building a world around rules, instead of rules around the world. If instead we start from the hunger          

                                              
If we decide to start from the hunger, how can anyone be called thief?

I sing a song of solidarity

for those murdered in the streets.

For those taken from their homes,

Imprisoned and sent far away

A song of forgiveness for those

who have become avengers

with souls blackened by anger.

I sing of love for those

who have lost their way

and those who are finding it in

the kindness of their neighbors.

A powerful song calling for

hope and beauty to rise out of those

terrorized and blood-soaked lives,

for those who deserve better

for we are all one.

There is a plow coming through,
approaching faster than yesterday
a fire hose ignited by a Ring Master
threatens my slow moving finger tips

In his other hand is held a bright whip,
or is it just the sun rising on this new day
calling attention to the center ring
where artifacts are assembled

I remember when all of these arrived
with laughter, satisfaction, gratitude, love
now deciding what must go feels so permanent
severing through lines, stories ending

Now this theatre begins—a party of one
no anesthesia, tears are expected,
apathy encouraged, imaginary friends
are of no use—your inner dialogue got us here

Remember, this is just a problem to solve
the proxemics of space—like solving how to fit
a house into a thimble…So seize this day
Let’s start with the box of VCR tapes

Trying to keep the weed just a weed.
Don’t let me metaphor it to death though
the way they scourge my yard, they do suggest
a life out of control, or Attila demanding entry to Rome.
Well, no, he’s already here.

Now stop. The weeds are just evidence of sloth;
you don’t need grand similes for that.
They’re just damn weeds, not evidence
of moral decay or if so only the venial sin variety.
Say three Hail Mary’s and keep pulling.  

Even better while you’re kneeling on the
new kneepads your wife has kindly gotten you, imagine
the Dionysian vigor that propels the weeds onward, upward.
Make a small clearing—evidence of some progress at least.
Say a prayer to some nature god along with Mary.

Your poor statue of Saint Francis is almost
covered with weeds.
He could use a prayer while you’re at it.

Uncover him, and don’t let the metaphors choke.    

I wake to blood in my nose.
The sunlight pours an ill will
and everyone’s anger simmers,
directed by instinct, at the person
who will feel guilty regardless. You
sentence me to your silent resentment.
Serving time with no end date, I push
into elsewhere, brute force, in pain, 
to become briefly brainless. Quadruple 
my dose to flip days into nights, fortify 
this semblance of distance. In the dark
I raise a hunger that gnaws off the guilt, 
leaves my skeleton hunched in the closet.
Crucified right where it should be, 
right where everyone likes me. 

You can touch spots on

     A glass screen

And talk to someone

     On the other side of the world

If you have a question 

     You can touch places 

On the same screen

     And find the answer 

    (Do you trust it?)

The same screen 

     Will display your heart rate

And remember your mother’s telephone number

It will tell you where you are-

     Exact latitude and longitude 

And your elevation

It will tell you how far it is to Altoona

     And how long it will take to get there

When to go to bed

     When to get up

It will annoy you with concerns

     About car warranties 

And remind you about doctor appointments

     And friend’s birthdays

You can check your balance

     Pay your bills

And order Cadbury Flake

 (To make a 99 Flake ice cream treat, that it told you about on a podcast)

You can check the temperature on Ho Chi Minh City

     See if it is going to rain in Mesa

You can hear what stupid thing Trump said yesterday 

     And play ‘Freecell’

Can see what the markets are doing

     And what birds show up at the feeder

You can plan a vacation

     Book a room and flight

Use your points to pay for it

You can see traffic jams

     And coming storms

Cats doing cute things

     And neglected dogs 

Being groomed.

You can touch the same screen 

   Write a rambling poem,

Not having to worry so much

     About spelling

You can take photos 

      That will help you remember

When that part of your brain is gone.

I clamber from bed each morning
and gasp
to put weight on my left leg,
the right not much better.
Friction, gravity, and a tragic toss
of my dice leaves me limping. 

Cast back to my foremothers —
how did they navigate when old limbs failed?
Did they still knit socks for soldiers despite carpal tunnel?
Did suffragettes clench their jaws against the agony of every damn step?
Did women on farms suffer with tree pollen at the height of planting season?  

My body does its secret work of self-destruction.
I dress up anxiety to perform as excitement
while dread pretends at expectation.
In yet another medical waiting room
I imagine wearing a body bag.
Black goes with everything.    

I have noticed that some people cannot meander
through a forest without imagining a saw.

A tree spends decades becoming itself.
Drawing water upward.

Holding nests. Making shade. Growing toward
more and more light. Then someone arrives

with a tape measure. A plan. An insecurity.

And suddenly the tree is evaluated
for other purposes. Could this be lumber?

Could this be firewood? Could this become
something smaller and more useful?

Could we have a better view?

I’ve had lovers who spoke about me
this way. Not directly. No one says:

I am intimidated by your height.
Your athleticism. Your joy.

Your intelligence. The way you belong
in so many different rooms.

Instead they find the nearest axe.
A joke made in public. A correction

offered unnecessarily. A story retold
with the important parts

removed. A sentence started
and purposefully not

finished. A slow and careful
reduction. Until they are standing

on the stump
feeling taller.

I used to think it was for me
to explain. To prove

I was not a threat. To shrink the canopy.
To apologize for the shade.

Even after the cut, trees send up shoots
from roots. They insist.

I don’t have space for anyone
who needs me smaller

to feel safe. Or quieter to feel wise.
Or colder to feel warm. Or broken apart

to feed a fire that never seems
to survive the night.

I was making shade for us.

‘too poetic’
but who says
he gets say-so?