what’s meant by breastbone spluttering comely as
what scuffed moodstone’s truant indifference

I linger as if it is me on fire, Cowboy mused to Railway Cat.

We gathered for Father’s Day 
A small dinner at a restaurant 
Local chain in downtown 
In was crowded with other families 
Too many people were talking 
Eating and dining on way too much 
We had good laughs and managed 
To connect and converse over the noise
We listened to my dad’s stories again 
Some that we have heard about over 
And over again, so many times
Though I fear he might be slightly 
Slipping ever so slightly into a new era
Forgetting points and others remembering 
Plain as day, as if it occurred yesterday 
At times he’s showing signs he might have 
Forgotten to remember, and remembers 
Seem to remembers keep remembering 
Lately it’s been more on repeat than usual 
I’m thankful for the way you are with my dad
You allow him to connect with his place in time
So his mind can pinpoint the moment then get lost
Yet dad is there reliving the moment so vividly 
He replays each event like a chord progression 
Etched out in his head like a needle on the vinyl 
He looks to you for reassurance and acceptance 
Your nodd gives him all he needs to keep going 
He smiles and the replay lives on
A record frozen in time 
No hall of fame to name him 
Just my dad

the riverbank I lower my body,
press my hand into the fine grey dust there,
soft & giving. river’s breath kicks up a cloud
of it dances a moment before it bites at 
the corners of my eye my mouth
pulling my water to the shore

No space brings more comfort

than the few inches between

a cat’s ears or the scruff below

their trembling chins 

when you question

a decision you just made.

The same might be said 

for a dog’s head in your lap

at the end of a long day

but most especially after short ones.

Is it selfish to sink into their lives

and relish whether our decisions

would matter to them?

That measure holds true

no matter the century

nor current season of disrepair,

and short of asking the creatures nearest you,

you might have to just hope

we provide the same comforts

they need right now, too. 

She wished, just today, she could walk
like her mother, the secretary, mindful
not to step too hard across the wood floors
in the two-bedroom apartment for five
above Charlie’s Key Market, careful,

so her mother wouldn’t yell
You stomp like an elephant!

She heard that voice in her head, for years,
until one day, on National Geographic,
she witnessed those massive matriarchs stroll
like mountains marching across a savanna
around baobab and acacia trees, swaying

along ancient paths, fanning ears, feet
raising soft dust clouds, floating. Next time
her heels hit the floor, she smiled—
her new landscape was emerging.

My secret life you’ll never know

despite my desire to share it with you.

I want to tell you about my joy

and my friends

and all my adventures.

I want to tell you

how much the electrolysis hurts,

how scared I am to live in this country,

how lonely I feel sometimes.

You joke that

my life is redacted.

Yet you don’t truly want to hear

the things I have to say.

I don’t get to have opinions

or preferences.

You might withdraw

your conditional love

if I stopped playing the role

you forced me into.

I want to lean on you

in ways you’d never accept.

I want to cry on your shoulder

every time I feel afraid

or rejected.

I want your blessing.

I want you to tell me

my grandmother still would have loved me.

That my father would have eventually come around,

I want your support in coming out.

For someone who wants to be needed,

why can’t you see I need you

in the worst way?

I need you to walk beside me

and hold my hand.

I need you to defend me and be my champion.

I need you to be there

when I start HRT,

when I have facial feminization surgery,

when I go through all these exciting,

frightening changes.

But I don’t get to have you

in that way.

So I’ll keep my secret little life a secret.

I’ll be for myself

what you can not and will not.

Your rejection

is just one more flame

in the fire this phoenix is rising from. 

The darkened sky pleads with the crescent moon
Begging it to illuminate
The forest floor       pine needles scattered
Birch tree leans to the ground
Drooping branches weep     sap saturating limbs  

A wolf belts out a haunting howl
Piercing the murky, dense air
My body becomes as still as the oxbow lake
Beads of sweat frame temple    skin clammy  

My brain shoves me   almost tripping me
It yells       
Run!
Now!  
Eyes dart upon
Towering canopy trees   covered in moss
Decomposing logs
Wild berries and wildflowers
Exposed bedrock      weathered
I do not know which way to run  

The white noise of a
Rushing waterfall
Interrupts the forest’s bedlam     thickets   briars    tangled roots  

I move toward the roar
Of  the water
Path winding through gullies and valleys    downhill
I encounter steep, hidden drops     choked ravines
My hands grasp embedded rocks    steading
I continue traversing
Until I stumble upon a trail
A painted blaze on a post  
Leading me out of the forest

worn out
on the second longest day of the year
smiling and talking to people 
saying the right things 
when promoted and expected 
to make sure everyone feels 
right 
the band an eclectic 
math metal with a psychedelic edge

my hand slips around your waist
a 
single 
squeeze
and you ask
ready to go
a balm 
for a weary traveler 
like me

the windows roll down
warm July air enters the cabin
and I remember how speed
meant something to me then
now
you remind me of those Dawson Pool Days
my Dad dropping us off
and forgetting what time
we need picked up