Combing through the muck,
And filling holes in the creekbed
With affirmations 

I’m still tired,
Or maybe tired again

Walking to the edge of the water,
And wondering what comes next

Sharing secrets into the wind
That blows between the wet, white lines
Of the eastbound highway

Dry sand and wet sand,
The snow above my head
And the grass to my knees

Combing through the words,
And filling holes on the page
With whatever I can find

It wasn’t a ham sandwich killed her. Likely
it started with the Dexedrine and the crash
diets and only stopped once her heart – warm
and wilder – weakened, broke, dashed –
like half-baked lies Allan led Sue to spread
with rockets, bells, and poetry about some
inconsequential half-eaten ham sandwich
on the nightstand by her deathbed. Her legacy
falsely framed that loneliest kind of lonely. She called
Michelle from London that July night, maybe longing
to linger ‘til dawn after two weeks of sold-out shows
at the Palladium, ecstatic from the standing
ovations with stars shining bright above her prime,
just 32, and a poet not soon to run out of rhyme.

i wish it didn’t hurt as much i wish i could 

dreams wrapped in soft waves
endless until caught by nets
raise me for the day

The silence was deafening
The first time I drove home from work
And your voice wasn’t playing through my speakers
I spent the next commutes
Alone with my own racing thoughts
Filling the chasm left behind with the songs we used to sing together
So at least I had a little bit of you when the rest of you was gone
But even the loudest music was drowned out by overwhelming grief
The wailing cry of reality
The banshee of my new world sorrowfully shrieking
The silence was deafening
The first time I drove home from work
And couldn’t tell you about my day

Fern shadows play over
our feet as we move along the trail.

My son pauses to raise his binoculars
every few feet calling out names of birds,

chattering excitedly about their actions.
I follow him listening, soaking in

our whispered peace, slow pace,
and pops of dappled light.

Thirteen years I’ve been his mother.
Thirteen years I’ve learned and relearned

what that means.
Just as we turn to head uphill,

wind and feathers brush my arm,
high-pitched trills surround us, and

I turn to see amazement in his eyes as
he motions me to remain silent, but

keep walking and we approach the bushes
where a handful of Kentucky Warblers

engage in an ongoing disagreement.
Bryum whispers, “They must be fighting

over a female,” as we stand on the hillside
amid darting yellow feathers

trying to follow their movements
back and forth, jostling limbs and shaking leaves.

Then, at once, they are gone.

Time is growing shorter,
or so it seems.
Every day I see someone more and more foreign
staring back at me.
My sisters are changing,
and my friends.
Our hands are roughening from our labors
and our bodies are making room
for children
and our hearts are breaking
and scabbing over until
scars and callouses
make us tougher
inside
and out.
Sometimes I want to scream and cry at
the stranger in the mirror,
or to God,
or to time itself:
“Please slow down, please stop, if only for a moment, I need more time I need more time I need more time.”
But then,
I realize in moments of clarity,
how privileged I am
to watch myself
and my sisters
and my friends
wither and age.
How lucky we are, to know we always walk with
one hand holding Death’s and yet we smile
and sing
and dance
and wither
and age.

Oh, good lord,

Cradle of sun

rocks you to bed

of memories,

with fought for worries,

fields of weeds and daffodils

laugh in the face of

tumbling children

and sighthounds

chasing after mindful prey.

Basking towards a breeze  

or haze of sniffling in meadows,

acting as catalyst to every walk

molded and kept together 

by sweaty palms.