833 W Main St, Lexington, KY

It’s very personal, how you die. 
Grief is not linear; it has no timeline. 
When you don’t grasp the value of presence, when you’re not truly paying attention, then everything becomes a surprise. 
Not all signs need to flash; sometimes, it’s barely a whisper, yet you heard it. 
If you don’t listen to what’s unfolding, your experience, in general, is limited. 
I hope my grave in the cemetery has a beaten path.

Take a Japanese cherry blossom when the wind is gone from her lift and drag. Pink beauty hiding fury, hanging in sprawling regalia like Jimi Hendrix’s outrageous coif.

Comes wind, she grows.
Then it goes.

Now, branches no longer swayed are vegetal.

The Creator appears, we cannot but dance.

Then Creator hides:                and we listen like lettuces.
                                                    cry, pomegranates.
                                                    pray, prostitutes.
                                                    promise, drunkards.
                                                    plead, condemned men.
                                                    trust, newly planted seeds.
love. 

Over the past few months, a lot has changed

The tides, the air, the sun

And my feelings towards you

I held onto you for so long

A ghost, occupying my energy

I catered to you for a while

Entertained every fantasy

Danced with your transparent figure in the living room

Yearned over what would’ve been

But I think it’s time to let you go

To cut your spirit free from its tethers to me

A part of me I will never get back from you

But change is inevitable

Just like I thought we were

So now, I let you go

Waving farewell

I thought this moment would be harder

Like a child watching their lost balloon drift on the wind

But as I watch you go

Knowing there’s nothing I can do

Isn’t scary anymore

I’m finally okay

I’m finally at peace

Goodbye Jess

Goodbye, June 

The round oak table that groaned as my father leaned on it to raise up from his chair and say, “Delicious, Lora Jean.”

The five ladder backed chairs, one that didn’t match, one that was always occupied last by my mother, rushing to join us with pot holders gripping one more dish.

The black pebbly countertops my mother regretted choosing, with grooves that required scraping if peanut butter was involved.

The Amana Radarange Oven, its popcorn popper the usurper of Jiffy Pop, tucked on a shelf in the pantry.

The faux brick flooring, slightly faded in front of the stove where spot cleaning alternated with a mopping of the whole kitchen.

The blue gingham wallpaper above a chair rail, with walls that absorbed the smells of cornbread, spaghetti sauce, and strawberry jello.

Grocery store fireworks rupture 
the muggy afternoon, sounding like fistfuls of cash exploding, 
papery shreds falling onto pavement.  The cacophony
has already begun four days before July Fourth, and in broad daylight 
no less.  

I can picture the culprits.  Little kids running amok
in sopping suits waiting for the bang, the rainbow burst, the swimming pool last moment’s marvel; a mother and father fiddling 
with a stubborn fuse, wondering if five seconds of glory
will be worth the money invested, the time spent.

All wait, anxious, as the whistling firecracker curlicues
into the sunny sky.
It starts with a bang and ends with a fizzle.
Sparks flutter back to earth.  So much for stardust.
Instead of a spectacle, all they got was a sound, a nuisance
for the neighbors.  I roll my eyes and try to calm
the cats, smooth their puffy tails.

Yet I suppose I must admire the shameless audacity,
the irrational hope it takes to look for the light
where there should be none.

If I am to teach you all there is
to being human, first, I need to know
your name. And you must promise
to keep what’s shared between us
a secret—no one can know
I gave you the key to existence,
a true human experience, free of any
expectations that, years from now,
you will remember this story differently
(build a library and trust its volumes,
despite what anyone tells you). You’ll find
your tears will not leave your eyes
until they’re ready—a joyful pain,
to shed, if temporarily, the heart
you carry (learn its weight and you will
know more than I can teach you).
Do you understand? Remind me—
what is your name, again?
Why has it changed?

I say “it’s a foul!”
Siri writes it’s a file!

She is filing Boston
all over the floor,
Siri says I say.

Filing her what?
It’s Aliyah on the block,
not H&R.