––a loose haiku, after “In Kyoto…” by Bashō

        even in Lexington
                glimpsing cemetery blossoms
                i long for Lexington

                foals wobble
        amidst green pastures
                spring beckons

    chill in the air
            frost settles under our skin
                    soon––rain, flowers, summer

to become myself
must I give myself away

pour myself into what I do
a poem, a painting, some strange brew

built to hold messages, sparks, or a notion
stamped upon a grain of sand or flooding all the ocean

It is said that in releasing blood of my veins,
and marrow from bones that this will make the losses gains

though making me vulnerable exposed as wet clay
I will to go uncharted — becoming no other way

One of the secrets to our marriage (I have often thought) is that we respect our boundaries while recognizing each other. (One example) We both take daily walks but do so individually. He likes to walk in the morning to start his day when I would rather wake and move at a more leisurely pace. I prefer an evening walk to close out my day while listening to music or poetry. Also, walking at his pace gives me calf cramps. Truthfully, we both crave some alone time. (But) Recently after a morning appointment I decided to take a walk in the beautiful morning sun. When I pulled into the parking lot I spotted my husband on the path but he walked past without so much as a head nod. I was discomfited by this non-interaction, but assumed that I had stepped into his blindspot and set off in the opposite direction. (Then) We met on the other side of the park on a steep slope. He pivoted on his heel and walked with me back up the hill as he explained that he had seen me the whole time.

This is our marriage:
Walking together uphill
Avoiding blindspots.

spiraling quickly towards the end
my gaze lingers on objects in this room
which will no longer reside here
in three days’ time—
        a teeny prosecco bottle in the windowsill
        shakespeare plays, austen novels in the closet
        canvas totes hanging from a blue bookshelf
       photostrips, notes, posters taped to the walls
all unceremoniously stripped and packed away
awaiting a tiresome journey across the atlantic.

my existence diminished to condensation rings
        and the lingering scent of rose perfume.

All I want from my parents is for them to be proud of me. I want them to know me, to see me as a good person. But I know they don’t. And that makes it hard. I want from them what I can’t have. Just like they want from me something I can’t give. Their version of righteousness and holiness. They want straightness and Christianity and grandchildren. I want none of those things. They see my queerness as a choice. A pitfall. A sin I indulge in. Just as I see their prejudice as a choice. I have shed my ignorance. I know hate. How it works and how it takes root. They are made blind from it. They believe it to be a holy intolerance of sin. I know it as a parasite that molds their perspectives. They feed it insecurity and it intoxicates their blood with that addicting effect of superiority. A sense of power and dignity over me. One that they truly don’t possess. Their devotion to a god that declares all as loved, worthy, and equal is as real as vapor. It may be seen by others, but it’s not solid. Not steady, nor reliable. Not really there. Just as their love for me is. They feel it. They know it to be true. And yet all I can feel is that it is not enough. I long to be full and content with the care they provide. Yet now I know the depth of pure love. One that is not hollow or breakable, tainted with conditions. One painted in the feeling you get in the spring. A promise of growth and sun rays on your irises. A breeze of cool wind in the warm evening. Enveloping, soothing, good, complete love. A love that is given freely. A love that does not waver. A love I deserve.

Love is patient

Love is kind

Love does not envy or boast

It is not proud or rude

Love keeps no record of wrongs

Love is not conceited

It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres

Love never fails.

It appeared
bellowing as
a face looking
upward
blowing peace
from its open
mouth,
hair flowing
as if to embrace
every corner 
of the earth.

my father’s heart / my grandfather’s brain / the life of a dead bird now laid to rest under my shoes / Meghan’s laughter / a hug from Tyler / heated blankets / orange cat purrs / rain that brings forth ache / hauntings / God / God / God / God / please help me be thankful / please help me / worry / sunlight through the basement windows / dawn / my father’s heart / my grandfather’s brain / another bird perched outside the window chirping

At the moment I have to hoist
my suitcase up from the platform onto the train,
or as I trudge through endless airport corridors,
I evaluate my days:  

What am I carrying to my death?
Who will dispose of what I leave behind?
Does anyone want my junk?  

Six shirts—why not three,
three slacks—why not two,
jacket—recall last fall’s freeze,
books, books, books—
only for security:
what I know
will have to do.  

Our wide-bladed sterling flatware knives require balance and an unwavering hand. Grandma’s tremors left her embarrassed as green peas tumbled across the white drawnwork linen.   I avoided serving peas to spare Grandma’s feelings, but gosh darn it, she loves ‘em.   Thank heavens for ingenuity, invention, and the United States Patent Office. Thank my lucky stars for Desha Breckenridge and his Lexington Herald, all the blessings of advertisements.   There, on page 3 of Sunday’s edition, The Safety Pea Knife for 25 cents. Funny lookin’ thing – a long slice removed from the knife blade the sides of the cut decked in scalloped edging.   Grandma’s peas march right up her dinner knife, little green soldiers side by each. For now, this does the trick, but if Grandma’s tremors worsen we’ll be back to airborne vegetables.   “What about puttin’ sorghum on the knife?” asks my son. Now there’s a thought — the wonders of engineering, but lordy, who wants green peas with syrup?

first, connect with the eyes,
move closer,
look closely at the mouth,
touch the hair gently,
whisper, 
nibble,
speak of desire,
arms around,
brief pecks–
the neck,
the face–
lips touch,
press,
warm,
tongue,
wet,
fingertips trace
patterns in the flesh,
hints of what is to come,
slowly–no rush–hands
move closer to 
more intimate areas,
kisses interrupted
by the right words,
the desire in the eyes–
unbutton, unzip–
clothes falling gently
to the floor,
leaving only undergarments
as we move to the bed–
your eyes, your mouth,
your hands, and
more–
anticipation building,
and, when the moment is
oh so right,
find the hidden menu,
open the site map,
reveal all