Saying thank you would be simpler, but instead I’ll just write more poems.

An American Sentence, and a promise.

You will Live your life so
that when you 

                              Reach the
End you will
Tell the other star stuff this

Dust to welcome you home you
Say
“I meant to do more. I meant to do more.” And

We will tell you what you know. it was.

secret moon
cloaked in a smoke shroud
yellow haze

On a half ruined wall
In fresh, jewel colors
A Roman feast
Sometime before disaster
Laid spread for eternity
And in it
What looks like
A pizza. 
What a strange connection
To have 
With the dead. 

Can I tell you about
(No I will tell you about)
the piece of who I am
that withers in my ribcage
screams to be let out
to the surface level
of my life story.

It’s been hidden
(No trapped)
for a long long time
from people who don’t understand
that I’m not exactly a woman
or a man
,not quite sure what I am,
but so many don’t want to understand
including my grandparents and Mom and Dad.

But with each word I read
each child I teach
and friend I meet
I see there’s others
who know me
and this piece
of my life’s journey
and it gives me courage
that someday (soon maybe)
I can be authentically
Me
They/Them
(No parentheses)

sounds create
your connection
with a fussy newborn

words create 
your connection
with a defiant toddler

music creates
your connection
with a rebellious adolescent

video chats strengthen
your connection
with young adults.

Connections as close
and secure as
a dental appliance,
a cantilever,
a truss, 
a beam.

a lifetime-warrantied
titanium cable
between you and them.

As I look around this small bar in town

I see my high school bully

And I see my best friend

I feel so comfortable and at home

Because I know this town better than I know myself

I have memories planted at every inch

The flowers bloom but I don’t change at all

Except for the need to leave

I fall asleep dreaming about Colorado mountains

And California beaches

I think about bartending in South Carolina

And wrangling horses in Montana

The opportunities are endless

And yet so far out of grasp

I worry I’ll be here forever

Smoking the same cigarette pack on repeat

Borrowing the same lighter from my high school sweetheart

My Mama’s best friend says I look pretty tonight

And a stranger asks if I’m from here

I always say “sadly” because I’ve never known anything more

Only the curves on every backroad

And the empty parking lots where we smoked weed

This is it,

My world,

A world so small I feel so big

But maybe,

If I could pack up and survive 17 hours

I could finally reach a place

Where all I feel is small

I’m too tired to write one last nonet. 
I just want to read and read and
savor the poems tonight,
binge read all the poems
of all the poets 
for all of June, 
so I’ll do
that in-
stead. 

Is it sweeter when you don’t know
    it’s the last time?

When you kiss a cheek,
    shake a hand,
        gather at a crowded bar and
            cheers for some milestone?

If you knew,
    would you try harder

to hold onto that moment
in all its little details?

The way someone’s lips taste at dusk
    or the feel of fingers sliding across your palm,
        a hug right against your chest
            tears running down your cheeks,

and all these things singing into your memory
golden harmonies of “if I’d only known.”

But we rarely ever do.