I scan your face for remnants of the you
you were before.

Inspecting the corners of your mouth
as you layer your bedsheet and quilt
for what must be the ten thousandth time.

Swift intentional movements.
Cotton tangled around your fingers,
a mess of threads from past and present.

During a funeral you pull two orange cream candies
from your purse and unwrap them.

“Quick, and nobody notices.”

We each pop one between our lips.
You nudge me when Aunt Letha falls out before the casket,
talking in tongues.

Careful not to make eye contact,
we soak up every decibel
of each other’s wheezing laugh.

A crescendo.
A dysfunctional family choir
of echoing heaves until we’re slapping at our knees.

I feel the entire fourth of our cells synchronized,
dancing between our gasps.

During the reception you pull food coloring and qtips
from your pocketbook when we learn the markers dried up.

We drench napkins with red 40 doodles
as you remind me not to eat the meat on the bone.

“In this family, it’s never done.”

When we’ve finished our plates and run out of ink,
you lift the bag over your shoulder and stand to go.
I am amazed at how easily you hoist the weight of it all.

It seems too heavy to carry alone.

The strap leaves a permanent dent in the soft of your trapezius.
My eyes linger on that remaining crater.
The proof you are still here enough.

I hope the void I leave too becomes a vessel
for everyone I dared to love so deep.

I am lucky to inherit
the holiest well on the hottest day
a burrow and a nest

a sweet tooth cavity
a dimple in my cheek
the curve of a winding road home

the arc of a wish bone
begging to know the loving  
is never quite done.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Step Seven of the Twelve Steps of programs such as A.R.T.S. Anonymous is, “Humbly asked God to remove our shortcomings.”  

(Feel free to use other terms such as Higher Power, another deity, Universe, Love, etc.)  

Wait a moment.
Aren’t I supposedly
a perfect child of God?
So, why do I need to vent?  

Wait a minute.
Aren’t I supposedly
made in God’s image?
So, what do I need to admit?  

Wait an hour.
Aren’t I supposedly
God’s masterpiece?
So, why turn over my power?  

Wait a day.
Aren’t I supposedly
fearfully and wonderfully made?
So, when am I supposed to change my way?

#tanka
When we feel an orphan in the very world that birthed us, the wind howls, the leaves applaud and answer: “Let’s celebrate together.”

I’ve been absorbing you too long.
I don’t like the taste in my mouth.

Seeping through like heavy metals. 

I wish I could capture light
cup it in between my hands
press it gently between my palms

I’d leave a tiny opening,
a little space for my eye to peek
before the rays filter out in a stream 

So that I could know for a moment
that wishes can come true
that they exist beyond the mind’s shadow
that they can be held close and set free

every morning when the sun gets high enough in the sky
thats when the  ladies start to leave the hive and fly

queen Bee-yonce and the left and queen  Bee-atrice on the right
I sit in awe watching as the working bees take flight

all day long they come and they go
how far do they fly? I do not know

they fly in with pollen sacks full and all over their feet
I can already imagine the taste of their honey so sweet

as the sun goes down they start to come back in
tomorrow a new day to start over again

It came unexpectedly, as most of them do and as always,
took her by surprise. She watched herself
open her mouth and the proverbial snakes and lizards spilled out.
That helped no one, including her. She followed up
with self-righteous drama and then somehow mid-sentence came to
her senses and apologized. She meant it. Regardless,
K.S. spun into a shame-spiral and dove headfirst
into the tarry pool of self-loathing. Yum.
She eventually emerged icky and remorseful and wanting
to be given a chance to turn back time so she could elect
to keep her mouth shut, of if she must open it,
to eat an everything bagel with cream cheese and lox or
to pretend she needs to tie her shoes in an Alpine Butterfly knot or
to paint the walls of her garage orange or
take a taxi to minimum New Caledonia. Oh,
the missed chances in life, disguised
as opportunities to say nothing.

I shot an arrow into a friend,
Yeah, that didn’t go so well.
He was standing next to that tree, waiting for the song.
I had forgotten about that part.
Fortunately, the arrow just hit his foot.
I apologized.
He said it was OK, it could have been worse
And told me to concentrate on songs from now on.

My window to the outside world 
is damaged.
Not cracked, 
not shattered,
just translucent.
Condensation now fills the in-between,
the product of a broken seal
between both panes, 
their agreement to keep out 
the elements now
null and void. 
The experts say the best way
to fix this is to
replace the entire
window.
Maybe one day.