Some day when death is near 
I’m certain there will be some, 
Who will have amany a thing 
Or two, maybe, very a few at all 
To say, about a woman like me 
But one thing I hope will be certain 
I can only hope with all my whole heart 
That those I hold so very close and dear
Knew that every day that I arose 
I did so with an openness, willingness 
And an urgency just for each of them
 
We get only one chance to experience 
Each other in this lifetime of existence
In my final moments 
I’ll be damned if regret 
Was the last thing I taste on my lips
 
Never leave words of endearment unspoken
Let those who are worthy of the best 
Hear those affirmations of the soul 
No tears shed over graves will 
Mend brokenness in the life thereafter 
An unlived and unloved life
Is the only thing wasted 

Two insects, buzzing—-
black flutters,
green-yellow glow

Most of my year
is lived without them,
& how hard our lives will be

when there are no more tiny wonders

My skull has been a papier-mâché wasp nest.
I’m buried deep in an echo chamber. A fortress
of hardened spit mashed poems is all I have left
from my formative years. Silly now, all hollow.
I am filled with too much humming, nothing
decipherable or substantial, just this dissonance.

Sometimes we fall in love with an idea 
when the actual reality 
is too powerful to claim.
People often fit in this space
where we want to be near them 
even as their energy maims our tongues, touches, and senses.
No remedy exists
for our search for proximity
except to get closer, only to get branded.
So many words exist
for the ways we deface ourselves
by staying away when we should engage.
But you are not train tracks,
a lightning bolt,
or the sun.
You are not an inspiration or a muse,
because that arrogance does not become you,
because you incadesce without even realizing it.
And even though your shine obliterates me,
I can only register that glow in proximity to
so many other sad and sorry stories.

My chest is hot

Like a volcanic explosion

Of chaotic anger and sadness

Breath from my mouth

Like a dark aura

Cloudy and full of hate

How my sternum wishes to crack

Break open into shards

To rake these broken bones

Across the earth

Better than it be my own skin

The way these cries shake

Deep within my body

Like the core of the earth

Trying to escape

With no dignity or remorse

Did you know that
when you cut the grass, 
it releases a chemical
called green leaf volatiles?
We smell it and think of
warm summer nights, 
or riding through your neighborhood 
on your bike in the afternoon. 
But really, the grass is screaming.

Sweet ringing.
Reset button.
Back to normal.
Drone. Drone.
Dial tone.
Brain fog.
Silence.

I ask you, “What did you call her? 
Was it Ma or Mama, or mother?”
You reply slowly. I see you going 
far back to a kitchen where a short
brown haired woman is busy
preparing a family meal and you,
a little boy in short pants with
knee socks pulled up neatly,
your haired slicked down as only 
a 1930’s mother could do, peek
around the door frame from the
living room and call out, “Ma, 
I just needed to see your face,”
“I  called her Ma”.

I have called you Dad for 61 years
and now I know what you called 
your mother.

6/8/25
KW
 

white and blue flags stand and wave
atop the colonized mound of granite.
Clover mites clamber in their shade, waiting 
for a thumb to crush their flesh
just to paint the pavement red.

Sometimes we take the place of a parent
when it becomes apparent
that the former parent
can no longer parent
themselves.