I don’t always know the words to say
but I still speak to you every day
                                                                                In quiet moments when the world fades out
                                                                                           I let the silence carry all of my doubts
This is how I pray—

     With the windows down
on a long drive home
     with a whispered thought
when I feel alone
     when I laugh
when I cry
                 when I lose my way
This is how I pray.
                                                                                          There’s no steeple, there’s no sermon
                                                                                                      just a heart that’s still learning
                                                                                                                      to believe you see me
                                                                                 even when I’m not sure you hear me pray
This is how I pray—

     In the hush of the night
or the break of the day
     when the words run out
but I still have faith
     In the smallest moments
or when I’m brave

                                                                                                                And That is how I pray—

I know, I know.
You’ll tell me I’m being ridiculous.

That infinite growth is the future.
That parch is the new green.

But I’ve been there, you see. Just last night!
Only a few decades and a few dozen miles

from your breakfast nook. (Maybe less).
It’s closer than you can imagine,

you, with your eyes focused hard on the market,
watching Greed parade cloaked by inevitability.

Sipping something strong to swallow
while you overlook construction

plans designed to transform lushness
to deserts of vast technology.

Last night I dreamed of a house,
so like the one you (and I) live in.

On the kitchen counter (so like yours! And mine!)
a barred owl paced. She was waiting for me.

She took my dream-spirit under her wing,
flew me over your deep hedge.

The moonlit air was thick, brown-hazed
with dusty inevitabilities.

In a soft bed (so like yours), I woke, coughing,
just minutes before dawn.

Outside my window, an owl demanded,
again and again:

Who-cooks-for-you?
Who-cooks-for you?

*the line “deserts of vast technology” was borrowed from Wendell Berry’s 1977 book “The Unsettling of America Culture & Agriculture.”

I’m disappointed.
I thought that you were

a safe place. I trusted
my feelings to you.

I thought you would be happy
for me, with me, celebrating.

I just wanted somebody
to be happy with me.

What if I stopped breathing?
What if I vanished into thin air?
What if I couldn’t stop screaming?
Would there be anyone who cared?

What if I couldn’t stand on my own?
What if I relished the pain of their love?
What if I made it so I was alone?
Would it ever be me they thought of?

What if my demons pushed them away?
What if my insides were wrong?
What if nothing I did could get them to stay?
Would it have been my fault, all along?

Pressed over time repeatedly
squeezed under pressure by
mechanisms that could be known 
but why bother? All you need to know 
is that I come out thin, fragile looking, 
as close to translucent as a real thing 
can be but you can trust me
as a covering, you can trust me
to adapt, you can trust me 
to fold into myself and become strong
in the fire and even if I burn
it won’t last long,
I don’t have the capacity 
to hold on to that heat.

Another one-way
conversation in my head.
No need for vocal cords for these
meandering musings.
Sounds just get in the way, though
a grunt expresses more than
my tiresome
whys.
A scream might
even be a
dream of relief.
But the why would
come back,
and you’d still be
silent.

A deep lavender hazed
black tinged
bruise encasing the backside
of my hand
from the base
of my opposing hand
repeatedly pounding
the same spot to the tune
of stayin alive
as the make believe
vitals
continue to deteriorate
despite the make believe
meds,
the real sweat-causing efforts,
and after 45 minutes
the instructor announces
an unfortunate
time of death

of the mannequin…

whose entire story
is now nearly identical
to my fathers
just a short 4 months
ago.

When I was wrapped up tightly
I didn’t care who couldn’t see.
The chrysalis met all my needs
all I had to think of was the fact
that I was on the brink of a bloom.

Something big would come of it
and I’d just have to wait
I’m honestly still a slug in here
but one day, one day
I’ll be just as beautiful as fairies
and I’ll fly like one too

But the metamorphosis is just beginning
I am only a worm in a cocoon. 

One day, one day.