Ah, the whole world in my hands. But
the other hands are so much 
bigger, grip so much 
better. 
The whole world. 
It’s too much, all at once. In my
hands, in my heavy
hands. 
What would I ever do with that much? 
I can’t break it all to pieces and 
pick it out. 
    Have I?
        Can I? 
The world is too big to chew, let alone swallow. 
My ambitions are the starving kind. But, still,
I could never eat the world. 
I’ve never been hungry enough. 
    Or have I? 
I think I’ve gotten used to the hunger. 
We’ve sat and lived and slept and breathed together. 
It gets a little less noticeable the longer you ignore it. 
Or maybe it’s a matter of skill.
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
Of course I’m good at it. 
But I can’t eat my own ignorance. 
    Can I? 
Even if I swallow it down, the taste is bitter and
I am not filled. I am not sated. I want more. I want. 
What an admission.
To want. To ignore. 
Who taught me this? The
heavy world in the palms of my hands? 
Oh. My arms are so tired.
I am so tired. 
It’s easier to ignore because it’s harder to do something about it. 
    Is that true?
An easy life. A life where I don’t
starve. A life, a life at all. 
Are you not alive when you eat? Oh,
who doesn’t eat after all? 
The dead. The close to dead. The wishes they were dead. 
Not the living. Eat. 
Eat. 
Where is your hunger? 
Where did you leave it? 
Don’t forget.
Don’t forget. It doesn’t feel any better to abstain. 
What kind of hurt are you looking for?

I slept in today
the morning crept by
the fan hummed and the sheets tangled 
the morning chill fell, the dew on the window evaporating in the heat
High noon light peaked from the curtains 
the worlds been moving without me
the house has been alive, foot steps and laughter echo in the hall way 
staying still didn’t stop anything
anxiety melts 
I go back to sleep 

I watched the octopus
continue moving even after 
it was dead.

I will be like the octopus 
and keep moving even after 
you have killed me. 

They don’t want you in the conversation,
I used to tell students who found certain essays 
almost impossible to read.
You can shrug shoulders and let them talk 
among themselves,
or you can break their code. Make
your voice 
heard!
I remember
this in comfort of my ignorance
as I navigate “signing in” for
different airlines.
It’s as if they don’t want us
to travel, I think, and like
some of my students I’m tempted
to shrug shoulders and
stay home.  That”s an idea! Stay
home. But I won’t.
I just have to navigate my  way 
into this strange conversation.
If worse
comes to worse,
I’ll just appeal to
the “kindness of strangers.”

Or airline clerks.

Whichever comes first.

i used to wonder how they did it
when so many wounds were bleeding outside of their windows

and yet the alarm went off this morning
and i went to work
i dressed like it mattered
drove a car to a building to prove that
i was in fact in office and working
and drank a cup of coffee
while opening digital envelopes
the small talk tradition ensued
and i fake nodded and feigned listening
because that’s what you’re supposed to do
when there is no space to address the unrest
they’ll document your unprofessionalism for sharing
my coworker plops a strawberry into their overnight oats
and i am not supposed to think about
the child migrants who first plucked it for her
the meeting begins with an icebreaker and i’m supposed to pretend
that that’s the ice i care about destroying right now
i toss orange-stained tamale husks into the trash
in the breakroom and try to miss the metaphor
because i can’t find meaning in its acknowledgement
and i’m not supposed to mention it if i do
my eyelids are heavy with the weight of memory
and the strain of blue light, war coverage
but it’s twenty-two days until the rent is due again
and three hours until my boss wants to circle back
and the dull ache in my chest demands i bear witness
but the project tracker says to schedule that for later

the wounds are bleeding outside of my windows
and i still have to go to work tomorrow

sadness slipped by my soul
this morn
drifting from sleep to wake
a thorned
pain body
i have no need
to carry

i’ve started writing again 
like how you wait for the last bit 
of honey to pour out on a cold day 
it’s sweet at the end 
but dreadful to watch 

—–

i’ve started writing again 
like a dam broke 
there is no salvation for the 
town that i built 
around who i was without words
the villagers were never meant to 
survive anyways 

She stares at pairs of stairs,
each bearing unique airs,

in colors, styles, and possibilities,
but which to take?

She tries to climb some,
but slips and tumbles down,

bruised, unsure, feeling frail,
but also stubborn and set to prevail.

A thrilling and terrifying season of life to be in.

age gathers ammunition
against my  neck
no matter how 
I protest
How Rude. 
when I make my descent
from the steps of strangers
after delivering their pizzas
my worries alternate
between
overdue notices and weak ankles
How Unfair.
…more money
…more time
…more sleep
…more mistakes
…more fun
…more Vitamin D
…more obligations
…more do-overs
… more age freckles
…more HITS TO THE CREDIT SCORE I DIDN’T ASK FOR 
WHEN I AGREED TO DO THE ADULT THANG INSTEAD OF THE 
DAYDREAMS I WAS BUILT TO SHARE OVER DINNER WITH FRIENDS
AT FANCY RESTAURANTS THAT NO ONE CAN EVER REALLY AFFORD 
…but no worries,
at the end of the day, 
the search
for peace
unites all of us.