I’ve had a hard time regulating my emotions
Especially lately
A lot is going on
I’m estranged and worried about paranoia
I don’t understand
How
They still talk like
I’m not angry
How they breadcrumbed their way into comfort and
Had no remorse after I said
What happened
I walk around certain towns like an obstacle course
And I’m still not sure where
I’m supposed to be
But I’m content in this moment
In this right now
I’m becoming comfortable in knowing that maybe it’s okay to
Not know
To start over again
And to keep in mind that we all die off eventually and time is a tiny arrow that
Goes around the same way and with the same number system
Every       
        Single                  
                   day
I’m going to do whatever I want 

My afternoon porch muddied with your FedEx envelope.
X-ray vision tells my tummy what happened – “You’ve been served”
Not a warrant or a bill collector,
but a feckless threat from a neckless father.
Day full of loading screens,
            mouse clicks,
                    and hold songs.
No way to know if I’m dying or just hungry.
Pie charts showing what I owe and how far (not far) I’ve come. 
Feline premonitions preempting anxiety attacks with headbutts and tail thumps.
Butcher paper slick with wax and vinegar – lunch meat satisfaction.
Restless feet overpower week knees and drag me outside.

Bakery bread made with the same chemicals as yoga mats,
as stars.
Burning for a father’s love – any father but mine.
Grateful for a too-warm sun which reminds me
that God sees me when Man refuses to look. 
Love surrounds me and attacks without warning; I am hopeless against it.
Stormtroopers and Sith Lords lie terrified before me,
but showers are too cold these days if you forget to get hyped first.

Tumble weeds of ginger hair plucked with vanity or to scratch a deeper itch.
The deep peace of sharing a stranger’s smile. 
My morning fortification of a Crayola breakfast.
Yielding to a mother with a stroller is no sacrifice.

New sneakers, crimson, all arch support and clean laces,
cushion my ever forward fall, until I land where I ought to be.

You cannot take this from me. You do not have anything I want. 

I am. 

Here you come again.
Dolly’s voice has whispered in my ear all day.

Shall we dance?
Will you spin my butt into its chair?
Prance my fingers across their keyboard?
Choreograph a pas de quatre with sight, smell, sound, and taste?
Encourage that magical waltz with heart and mind,
that catches words before they escape?

It’s June.
Another chance to trip the light fantastic.

the burning, split open, back of my left ear

aware of the salt in the water, the breeze

catching me alone, the rattlings freeze

the empath curse, the neck hair raising fear

bruised on the frontline, we all live at war

sixth sense for the lies, rain storms in our knees

locked doors buzzing for all their missing keys

beneath the photos, the mantle glamor

the fire and ash, the holes in bathroom tile

open scars, fleshy wounds and polite smiles

a fresh paper cut, lemon juice stinging  

our matching grins, back molars worn by bile 

pull our strings, this crowd is yours to beguile 

this perfect family’s gone deaf, ringing 

The earth rests in a subtle crust
as frozen flecks stretch through 
the tilled rows.
A late frost delays planting
for a few days. She waits for the sun
to accommodate the need
to drop seed
that dance and root.

Once seeds find their place,
each row is covered,
a mother
laying a quilt over her children,
drenched in care.

She whispers this is her last garden,
an echo across the valley. The memory
of sage that tripled in size the day
her youngest was born, flowers ripe
in bluest indigo, rests on her.

The last garden will house the usual,
snow peas with purple flowers nodding
in gentle haiku. The dark green splash
of rapini woven through rows of tomatoes
and a chorus of sweet basil.

She can almost
smell the ancient fragrance. Potatoes, parsley
with a mention of garlic chives will line 
the back border, close to the
sweet water well.

Fruited flowers to float in vinegar, always
a tradition. And the bee balm,
Oswego sweetness, the treat of hummingbirds,
the deep red of blood drenched in
the myth of Pyramus and Thisbe.

to be flat
to be smooth
to be pale, drained,
to wear color,
to not let it wear you.

to be soft
the way that it is right to be soft.
to eat,
to not be eaten.
to curl, to curve,
to bend,
never to break.

never to change,
never to swell,
never to shrink,
never to smudge,
but somehow,
to live.

the set on display
is destined
never to be worn.

Before the daughters,
she raised show dogs-
Afghan hounds,
royal sisters. 

Kahandi was the eldest;
narrow- bodied,
always at attention with
clear and deep black eyes
focused forward, her
linear muzzle punctuated by
brunette locks, a
gifted learner, a
serious hunter, and 
task mistress.

Kamikaze was golden like wheat,
with maximum fluff, a
stellar specimen of the breed,
a beautiful dimwit, with
smiling, distracted eyes, a
lover of all creatures,
she tried to learn commands but was
built for snuggling. 

She trained them both,
loved them equally,
praised their qualities but
there was always
subtext- wishing the achiever was
more beautiful, or the
glamour girl more determined, or for 
some method of combining the two into
one extraordinary contender.  

my alarm rings and it’s not fun and exciting like the end of the challengers (2024) theme song.
i lied down for an hour and didn’t sleep at all.
i thought about dialogue i’ll never say out loud to anyone because i’m too shy and have no one to talk to,
and i won’t write it down because it’s just for thinking, not for writing.
i don’t know how to approach the page anymore.

everyone is having a fun summer without me,
but i’m too tired to go out.
my georgia friend asked me if i could ask my michigan friend if i could be invited to eclipse-type events,
and then she went to the beach without me.
am i allowed to ask?
i don’t know the ettiquette,
or how to have a fun summer.

the girls in the theater next to me laughed everytime they played the challengers (2024) theme song.
i wish i could understand their humor.
i am the perfect audience for a film score. it effects me as desired.
i was roused, excited, and engaged.
they laughed under their breathes.
the couple sitting to the left of me didn’t make it through the whole movie. they defintely came to fuck, thinking it was a late showing to an old movie, and no one would be there.
we were all there.
there was another couple, two friend groups, and two alone people—me and a guy.
we all came to see the three-way movie, which was way more than a three-way movie.
i was surprised a man wrote this movie, because it seemed like it was made for women.
and then i remembered, that man was gay.
and it turned out, it was a movie made for people attracted to men (gender disregarded.)
it was a very bisexual movie.
i felt really regarded.

salsa class was a disaster today. and i already signed up for 8 more lessons.
now i learned my lesson: wait and see.
i had fun dancing with myself in my apartment and got cocky.
now i’m re-guarded.

i hate my alarm. i don’t want to leave my house. i don’t know how to have a fun summer.
maybe it’s not like the alarm in the challengers (2024) theme song.
it’s like the guy cursing out his alarm at the end of the challengers (2024) theme song.

a new feeder hangs
on a crepe myrtle branch–
yet the birds, sporting
their brighter colors,
hesitate,
stay low to ground,
peck at spilled seeds.
even here among
crepeflowers that surround
our round stone patio.
hops halting. glances darting,
they flit onto limbs at last
but ignore the taupe feeder
with its sky-blue trim.
their complexions
dance against white blooms
day by day til i find the feeder
near empty. their new gift
now trusted. i wait,
eager to experience
their brave leap,
their shed timidness.
for i cannot.

It’s June, it’s poems

It’s green, it’s poems

It’s frog, it’s poems

It’s toad, it’s poems

It’s words, it’s poems

It’s song, it’s poems

It’s poems, begin

again, begin!