He saved his best stories for dessert
so the family could linger together longer.
He covered court news
and could craft a narrative
deliciously.

                            (Except the story about being bitten
                            by a baby copperhead
                            while hiking barefoot
                            at Indian Falls–
                            his family knew that one well,
                            but for me he saved it
                            for our first hike there together.)

He always had a plan–
a concert, a camping trip,
a midnight swim in the pond–
was always creating
something he looked forward to sharing,
something he might revise in the moment
like taking his shoes off in the woods
or his clothes off at the pond,
something I could look forward to
like dessert.

smoke and dust and ash
annihilating forest
arsonists burn dreams

There’s still the dress in the closet that she was wearing
to the Halloween party in 2014, one she can’t seem 
to get rid of, no matter how many times she tries,
the one she sometimes stops to run her hands idly
across the black and champagne sequined satin
as if somehow she can infuse the garment with energy
from her fingertips directly into the fabric,
something so fiercely powerful, so resiliently beautiful
that no one could possibly mistake a drunken night 
as a green light ever again.  

“Lay with me tonight.
Your books will always be there,
but I will not be.”

Crack.
        Split.
                Burn.
Seperated from the soul and discarded
in the bin,
lost in boiled coffee grounds.
A still stench consuming this membrane
before disolving; a shell.
Watch us eat.
Watch us consume the yolk
before we suffocate light.
Oxygen
lifted, gagged, and tossed
in the bank of a rotting behemoth;
surrounded by our rotting bretheren.
Eventually we lie in a heap,
cells torn apart by seagulls,
stray cats and dump hounds.
Again consumed
miles away from the potential to live.

I may no longer recognize
the songs at my neighborhood pool, but the quintessential clank
of spoon and bowl has never changed. 
After all these years, I’m still just a little girl wiggling atop a wobbly
chair at Gaga’s house, waiting to devour an overflowing
bowl of Moosetracks chocolate ice cream, always a scoop over the serving size.  I scrounge
in soupy remains for each sumptuous morsel, scraping
spoon against glass.  Though the bowl is never big enough, I savor
every melted drop as my kitchen rings with the nostalgic clatter of sweet summer eves.

I grow weary of nails down the chalkboard of my brain
Internal wailing shipwrecked in bottled tears
Oppressive heat of resentful impotence and angry fears
Oscillating between desperation for a sympathetic shoulder
And intentional isolating in my impatience and introversion

And so I shall try to point the compass of my mind toward
Counting the day’s blessings

My teen’s legs draped over mine
Reclining in comfort and quiet
Taking a minute to laze our way into the day

The simplicity of the whole family in attendance
Around the table for a morning meal

The surprising almost-pleasure and relative calm
Of a new discovered freeway-free backroad route
To ease unnecessary pressure in a necessary trip.

Banter with a delightful medical staff
Who encourage petting of a giant puppy
Offer weighty book recommendations with a side of silliness
Note chosen pronouns sans prompting
Wrapping skills in finesse and thoroughness

Salt and butter play on taste buds
Fingers casually touch over popped corn

A cool drink of water in the cool of a summer night
Comforting drone of evening insects
Help steady the rise and fall of my chest.

(A radical erasure of “Two Girls Ago” by Lucie Brock-Broido)

     exquisite

                                    wren                at dawn

                                                              I          loved

                                         on the way home                        dark

                    weeping

                    flipping back 

        kissing in the field 

no         miss

no threat                                    yet 

I find myself leaving a trail of opinions

like leaves turned gold that have fallen

one after the other, a shower of them

letting go with almost no resistance

making a pattern against the flat ground

I talk more with others than I used to

some leaves just fly straight off and land…others swirl

bounce off other leaves                summersault away

blow skyward        travel long distances          vanish

But I know they will at some point subside

succumb to earth, decompose away

from their lofty impressions first made

Not like when young with those green thoughts

new sprouts ideas not fully formed

fleeting thoughts I kept to myself

But they too are now gone

Now, the way I see it

I know I cannot keep everything

I know I will not keep even what I love

I best to let go and so

it goes like that

with many things

leaving

Starting over
like I’m fresh out
of college and dipping 
my toe in the adult pool.
Nearly eight years ago
I bought this house,
left chaos and damage 
behind to raise my
daughters in peace.
Since then I have worked, 
parented, gardened, 
woodworked, caregiven 
for elderly parents, paid bills,
 the number one responsible 
grown-up. 
Now, I’m rewriting my
future. Making plans 
without asking permission. 
Suddenly I feel the stress 
of a teenager given 
too much freedom 
and no boundaries. 

KW  6/27/23