I once had a friend
try to finish

my sentences

she was wrong
most of the time

my friend was replaced
by bottomless bots

gemini helped me

disable gemini

A season of being outside with the fireflies,
Butterflies, beetles, bees and birds.

Homemade ice cream, popsicles and fudge bars.
Hot dogs on the grill.  Roasted marshmallows.

Camping and swimming and cornhole.
Badminton, freeze tag, hide and seek.

Vine ripe tomatoes. Cucumbers and watermelon.
Sweet corn. Blackberries. Peaches.

Summer has some good stuff.
And yet, the heat shows up sooner and stays longer.

It settles in the bricks of the house.
And in my bones and on my skin.

The flowers are wilting. The ground is cracking.
Streams, creeks, rivers and lakes are drying up.

Summer is just getting started.

                                Ⅰ
By Friday, I should have my shit together,
a woman behind the pale green curtain says.
I laugh quietly, understanding
the understatement.

The nurse hanging saline,
pretends not to hear.

The infusion center is full today: chairs cramp
snug rooms, IV poles cling beside us
like awkward dance partners.

Arrrrrrr— my arm cuff inflates.

Some of us are here to fight cancer.
Some of us are here because our bodies
have forgotten how to behave.

Tick…tick…phhsh— the tightness deflates.

                                ⅠⅠ
The nurse gathers supplies at the station,
speaking in low voices about vacations,
their children, what wafting food
they’re bringing today.

When will the cable be fixed?    By Friday.
When will Dr. Heart be back?    By Friday.
When will scheduling call?        Wednesday,
                                                        if not, by Friday.

I watch the medication drip into my arm.
Since by Friday, my assignments may be finished.
My laundry may be folded. The dishes may be done.

                                ⅠⅠⅠ
Chirp! Click click, click click click…

By Friday, the man to the left of me
might learn if the treatment worked.

By Friday, the woman through the curtain
may finally have her shit together.

Chirp! Beep beep. Chirp!

in six weeks
I will return to chair no. 3

And by Friday,
the stranger next to me
might not.

                                                                                    *An after poem, “By Monday,” by Remi Aubuchon

July 4, 1776
America’s birth

It was a declaration
of Independence

The birth of a
Nation

United under the
                               Stars
                      Stripes
              The
       Red
             White
                       and
                                The
                                       Blue
July 4, 2026
                     We 
                           Celebrate America 250 

My heart aches,
It’s writhing in pain.
No way this is happening.
No words to explain.

My heart is bruised,
Black and blue it’s become.
How could this have happened?
How could anyone?

My heart is shredded,
To many pieces to breathe.
Why have you done this?
Why have you done this to me?

My heart can’t be fixed,
Too damaged to repair.
No way can it be mended,
No way this life is fair.

My heart sits.
No flutters, no beats.
How could you hate?
How could you hate me?

My heart is silenced,
No words left to be spoken.
Why are you content?
Why are you satisfied with it broken?

My heart!

they hug you, on your birthday
they sing and set your place at the table
with leftover flowers and decorations,
and they hug you and make you feel special.
it’s not that my family doesn’t, per se,
and maybe it’s just the european air,
but the distance of the kinship
does not directly correlate to how i am made to feel. 
she will hug you and try to unnoticingly shove money
into your hand, all while having
the most basic of communication skills between
your english and her german. you will joyfully shout
nein nein nein as you push her hand back into her own pocket
she reminds you of your own grandmother, but younger,
and you nearly cry. you wonder off with your camera
to see the world around you through a lens that is fixed and stable,
that sees meaning in the haybales and woodpiles and dartboard dust,
and all of a sudden the world gets too big.
you focus on the sight of ripening figs, and the curry that lingers
in your mouth with the newly realized cavity,
and you snap a picture. you wonder off and sit
on a handmade bench and stew in the absence of memories
that never got to be. you are noticed. you lie and say you talk
with your friends back home about how it’s your birthday,
when really you just need more time alone. others come,
and you pick back up on the game you were playing,
and focus on strategy instead of your feelings. they are too much.
you realize every moment is skewered meat on a stick
soaked in curry and obligation, and the feelings become
bite-sized and bearable. you don’t share this, because you want to be
misunderstood, because that is your role,
and then you begin to eat your newly-made memories

Am I that dial on the big radio where
I tune in sounds of the world out there
frequencies bellowing and biting
expanding while fighting in the blare

noises sharp like at a cricket’s social
others are whispering perhaps ill advised
sounding sweet but brooding deep
can these all hold up once analyzed

I dial up some voices that are searing
they rip through the air with cries too loud
like sirens causing fears as they are nearing
while bad actors get shielded by a crowd

I wonder what I’m made of
am I young or am I old
plastic, or metal alloy
easily bent, sterling or gold

Does any of that matter
start remembering at your core
you are as qualified as your neighbor
to know what you are here for

Sirens may be at the pass
do not listen to their lies
they were never built to last
now we’ve learned we must be wise

Listen carefully, ear to the rail
its the truth you’re waiting for
nothing short of that will do
dial in listening demanding more

your poems shine from the sun
stories bleeding through red
and reviews sparkling blue

i wish you’ll never know
i wish you’ll never know
i wish you knew