Posts for June 23, 2026 (page 3)

She watched in awe,
with memory dripping down her face,
freshwater pearls of days long gone.  
Ghosts of the regatta flowed swiftly along the canal,
Venetian splendor etched in her heart.  

Colors of Murano brilliant in the sunlight
beckon her to follow the sails
and find her regal place.  
The gondola of her grandfather disappears around the bend,
covered in fog coasting past the railway station.  

She bends forward
a sail in the wind
nestled in her sandolo mascareta
desperately reaching for the ghost,
unable to touch as it disappears.

Isn’t it incredible
how bodies make room for each other–
In a hug, in the kitchen, in bed,
in the bathroom, reaching for the toothpaste?

I tripped on a slick root

to tip the scales into crazed
one storm  mother nature  lakes and rivers and waterfalls   flashing skies and frightened dogs  dripping and puddling and strange new spots of darkness
no control  
just let it be
the concept was clear  the practice was vague
so I ran away from home
to clear the storms from my head

Suddenly the grey goes down.                   
A thousand pounds of horseflesh land       
where earth is soft and muddied brown,  
   
and with him, helmet for a crown,
the girl’s ride strays from what was planned.
Suddenly the grey goes down

and time suspends the rider’s frown
as both meet gravity’s demand
where earth is soft and muddied brown.

Dragged under, she fights not to drown,
flings feet from stirrups to disband.
Suddenly the grey goes down

and covers her, a big white gown 
of crushing weight – can lungs expand
where earth is soft and muddied brown?

But here she finds her earned renown, 
for somehow she gets up to stand.
Suddenly the grey goes down
where earth is soft and muddied brown.

In the courtyard I scent the breath
of the Eternal City,
mingled stones and vegetation
sighing with the ages—
remembering who has passed here
by the scholars’ Aula,  
where dreams
and dogmas dwelt
in reasoned Latin.
Here under  fading frescoes of our fathers and mothers,  
saints and several monarchs,  
I pause this morning  
and breathe their passage,
until the smell of the laundry
reminds me—
even today’s occupations
share the perfume of eternity. 

I am of Kentucky,
suburban-raised,
Tudor-style down the street

from Starbucks and Panera,
far from hollers and
gravel roads to algae-capped

ponds where bullfrogs croak
away on summer evenings
like they believe there’s no tomorrow.

Ashamed to say 
so little do I know about coal
or the harvest of tobacco,

but I can attest to
the river that flows
past my city,

the seam it cuts
through the valley,
its cold, black heart

when flooding,
yet most days lazing
the color of cured leaf,

and sometimes,
it seems out of vinegar 
and spite,

that of the weak whiskey
they make down
in Tennessee.

I keep my house key in my back pocket

I don’t need it anymore

Mom and dad got a padlock a year ago

I keep my cuticles on my tongue

I worry them until they bleed

It’s become a pattern

I keep my memory on a thumb-drive

I don’t know it like I used to

I forget what you did to me

But I still don’t crawl back

The rumbling of my engine worries me

But I don’t call

I broke a promise I made to myself

And that’s something you will never encourage from me again

A few hours after hatching
North America’s only perching duck,
Takes a Fluff-filled death defying
dive from the nest
to the hard forest floor below
The height from which they leap
is astonishing, 30, 50 ft
   Their wings are but nubs
And they bounce on the ground
After ricocheting off branches or plant life
to join their mother below

Sometimes I feel a kinship
with those ducklings
As each fluffy feeling of mine plummets
into the public sphere of LexPoMo.
It doesn’t hesitate too long,
doesn’t consider whether it’s truly ready
Or equipped to deal with what hard blows
may result
Sometimes a mere hour after birth
The wood duckling discovers flight
before it’s grown wings

The First Fracture

i held it because someone had to—
she called me her favorite.
her sorrow arrived like a storm,
and i became the bowl she poured herself into.

young, i learned to steady a voice that wasn’t mine.
i believed it meant i was the one
who had to keep her whole.

i remember the year she shattered—
how the house tilted toward her grief,
how i moved through the rooms
collecting what she dropped—
confessions,
the small, bright pieces of a life
she couldn’t hold together.

i didn’t know then that i was learning a skill.
her breaking taught me the language—
the way a voice splits midsentence,
the way a house rearranges itself
around a wound.

i was young, parsing the fault lines,
learning damage’s fluency—
how every story has a seam
you feel before you see.

she spilled herself into me—
her fear, her wanting, her wild,
calling me the only one who understood.

i was young, too young to be the place
where someone else lived,
but she made a room inside me
and i kept it lit, believing that was love.