marigold petals creating paths for the dead
cempasúchil

Aunt Maggie’s beautiful sagging satin skin
the key to good fudge is the cast iron pan and lots of butter

letting soft sand sift through my loose fingers 
the sea renders all hard things to silt

on slow mornings when my lover peeks her eyes open
a hand that is searching for a hand can stop looking

summer evening rain relinquishing cool drops onto my face 
back porch kale leaves curtsy and dance

Storm clouds gather 
Dark and low and menacing
Portending harsh weather soon
A silent mist of rain
Litters the windshield 
Tense knuckles
Grip the steering wheel tight
Following the curvy hills
Southeast to home
A sudden plunk on the glass
By a chunky water droplet
From an overgrown limb
Cracks the tension
Of the current mission
A sliver of sunlight
Pierces the angry sky 
Grip loosens
Almost home

we have to tell ourselves 
we have a soul 
in between our worn bones
holding us together 
while we pretend 
everything is fine
when half of the universe
doesn’t make
any sense 

but with you 
it makes sense
and the only rule 
can be measured out
in the waking moments 
of you 

We had sat for a hour,
bumper to bumper,
in the blistering sun,
for reasons unknown.
But with my windows down,
my music up,
and strawberry milkshake
on my lips,
I felt perfectly content.

Wanting to be everything
And feeling like nothing

I lay on the floor,
Staring at the ceiling
My thoughts like a pinball machine
In an old arcade, loud voices
And sneakers squeaking
Closing time is always past due

The ceiling turns into a map
Of everywhere I’d like to be
With to do lists and bills piled on top
Unread books and pictures from the past
All these things I can see,
I could touch and smell
All of the conversations I might hear

But I fear,
I’ll never make it off of this floor 

i go the least
expected way
off trail

into deep grasses
where a turkey
wrangles the air

with all her startle
and I touch my heart
when I look down

to discover
her clutch of 13
freckled eggs

namaste I say
with a little bow
and tip-toe back 

to the beaten path
down the hill
out of sight

praying for the hen’s
quick return
knowing

this scene
is better off
without me

I hold you tightly as we dance

alone in your room

to music only we can hear.

I’m intoxicated by the smell

of your self-inflicted wound.

I try to swallow my hunger

(for once).

I’ve been a teenage girl

for centuries.

This is your first time around.

I’ll teach you.

I want to save you,

meek, dangerous creature.

Looking into your eyes

is like looking at my first love

again

from beyond

oceans of time.

At sixteen,

you’ve acquired the kind of loneliness

that usually takes a hundred years or more.

You tempt me in so many ways.

You want me to help destroy you,

to take the pain deeper.

I just want you,

all of your sadness and mystery,

reincarnation or not.

Even as I hate to let someone in

and complicate my existence.

We cling to each other

long after the last note.

Our darkness is not the same

but we share it anyway.

I.
six river snails
four taps of salt
three ancient newts
each color of the pale

II.
breath unrolled
from deepest lungs
a yellowed scroll
a tongue

III.
feathers tapping eyelids
then the throat
again again
this ritual on rote

Growing up too fast,
necessity of the life they’ve led:
them, us, me.
State of serious situation after serious situation
turns a child into a man, a woman, a being
stress on top of stress
and endless loop-da-loop of anxiety
on track to chaos
and utter loss of control.
Youth turned old in a matter of years
and they’re only eleven.

Fastforward: child turned adult,
already was far too soon,
but rather than dwell and bitter
they, us, me
we found ways to awaken the inner child
in all of us.
Music, games, movies, shows;
outings with friends
we never got to have:
painting, sleepovers, midnight car talks
about nonsense and everything that doesn’t matter
at least not in adulthood, but in childhood
it’s everything.

I processed my grief today.
Not a loss of a person, pet, place, possession or position…
I am grieving my perception, my progression, my plan…
That my past is still my present.
A poignant reminder I’m stagnant;
And this isn’t pleasant.