Posts for June 25, 2026 (page 5)

I made do when my Mother’s suffocating Love nearly took my breath away
I made do when I was 40 days old fighting for my life in an oxygen tank
I made do every weekend when my Father’s gambling addiction took him off to the races
& Welte’s smoke filled Lo Ball Card Rooms in South San Francisco

I made do when I survived my Mother’s family’s incest, the secrets, & violations, too taboo to talk about
I made do when my love & expression of ART was organized, parochialized, categorized, rolled up in a green oil cloth
I made do when I was taken off stage & had to give my wooden shoes to a cuter, petite, 2nd grade classmate who lived in a bigger prettier house, smiled wider, braids thicker

I made do when I was fat, wore glasses & knew all the answers
I made do when I joined a competitive synchronized swim team & my best was not blue ribbon best
I made do when I fell in the lower half of the bell curve in a private girls’ school where they all played smarter than me

I made do when I D’ed out of Chemistry & French & took Spanish instead
I made do when my typing 90+ wpm’s financed my fours years of college
I made do each and every time He dumped me for her ~ & I kept pushing that door I thought I had to open ~ even though it always remained shut!

Patient presents with epidermal splitting
Patient was taken to the operating room
and placed in supine position.
The first incision was made with a Bosch jackhammer.
Bleeding vessels were carefully cauterized with little orange cones.

God damn it.
I swear this city is always doing road work.
Maintenance is an ongoing forever-process
Kicking up dust and blocks of asphalt
Inserting rebar into wet concrete

Apartments with bad air conditioning and worse humidity
Mold growing into the damp corners of your chest
Patient whines and asks to be taken care of.
Patient requests to be given more morphine.
Patient request denied.

El Greco (Doménikos Theotokópoulos), View of Toledo, ca. 1610.

Before
    Bones become brine
    Looking back becomes a crime
    Mercy meets Leviathan’s maw
Before
    Reckoning rears recklessly
    Driving denizens indoors
    Avaunt or Drown! becomes law

Chance
An Iota of light
the way, looms

After dusk lays its blanket,
and the birds chirp good night,
a chorus of insects
announce it is night.

Two times my Jesus year
is two-thirds a devil year—66
and month 6 for that unholy trinity,
though I have crested the peak
and I am sliding on over to yet another year
that at 33 I could never have imagined,
but here I am combatting all the same
deadlies now as then—envy, gluttony,
an occasional foray into pride. My sins
are those of too much, not too little.
Proactive sins. Not sloth,
though I stretch out my legs
on this porch swing, coffee at hand,
contemplating the best of the days,
the labor and sorrow,
how they fly,
as the psalmist said.
A tale that is told.
I am aiming myself toward gratitude
for all the ways this aging body
carries me through
the length of my days.

You don’t have to be alone –
you can live with me.
I imagine you sitting lonesome,
lost in the TV.
Seldomly looking over
when she isn’t where she should be.
You can open up
and you can always speak 
what’s on your mind
or of a distant memory.
You don’t have to be lonely
and it’s OK to grieve.
I can tell you loved boldly,
and that love rubbed off on me.

Halo of dust, robes         
Plain as a puddle, your bruised
Palm stretched toward me

I catch myself again,
Picking the writers knot on my finger—
A habit, a fear, a quiet shame,
A flaw. Perfect as is.

I stop myself again,
My skin traced in ghost-white lines,
Be kind to the body healing, a body marked.
I hate them. I thank them. I hate them again.

I forgot that…that thing!
Yet I remember too much of what doesn’t serve me.
I care too much—
There is nothing wrong with you, your quirks, or your image.
I am fine as is.

I have never learned to hide my feelings.
I cannot fake belief. Or pretend to be.
I am horrible at math.
I have chased perfection until I have bled.

My mind does not rest.
Just please…
Not at night, not in silence, not even now.
Let me think!

And yet—

When I stand before the mirror,
When I meet my own eyes,
Dark and deep as earth,
When I count each imperfection like a tally in a game—

I tell myself a lie.
Or maybe it is the only truth I know.
Yes, you. The reflection is real.
I am perfect as is.

I wanted to fly.
Then I remembered
I am scared of heights.

Why did I cut off my wings
before even trying
to leave the nest?

Maybe
I am just scared
of falling.