Scattered Snippets Collected from my Desk

You talk too much.

My heart doesn’t know what to do with itself.

It’s all or nothing,

and all is not an option,

but nothing is impossible.

It’s weird to miss people you didn’t even know existed

before they died.

Weirder to be told you can’t.

Keep moving.

It didn’t really have anything to do with you,

after all.

I can’t really agree.

I can’t.

After all

I’m exhausted.

Escaped Impressions




Well, yes.

Detritus of my life.




Layered and laid out.

It’s not much, but–

I’ll hold you,

hide you if I can,

in my heart, bruised and loosely stitched

as it is.

It’s the softest place I have

for you.  I’ll do my best

to keep it strong,

hoping it will hold

hoping you can feel

something like safe,

even if it proves

as dubious as a tin shack

in a hurricane.

I’ll keep it warm for you.

They’ll keep coming.

I’ll stay here for you.


(aka Feminism doesn’t mean what you think it means)

My son will not be born

“a bad butt boy.”

My child will be born a baby;

a human, brand new,

scrunched up and dewy,

eyes shut against an unexpected world.

I will not take his voice

in order that he will not

bellow- a beast he doesn’t expect to be.

I will teach him to sing.

I will teach him what strong lungs are for.

I will not keep him weak

in order that he will not be brutal- a monster

he hasn’t even dreamed of.

I will build in him a strong heart.

I will build in him the desire

to use his hands,

to use his arms,

to use all the power he possesses

to build each place in love.

My child will not be born bad.

My child may not even be born boy,

whatever they tell me sits between

tiny, knee-less legs.

My child will be born human,

brand new.

I will show my child how to be human as best I can.

Wish us luck.

Hope (Fingers crossed)

You are the moon

on the horizon.

I want to see

your face.

It’d be fun

Can it be a given

that we call each other?

About silly things,

and heavy things

we don’t actually want to say,

knowing the other gets it all the same?

And can we call each other

to fight back boredom,

all kinds of names,

and about nothing at all?

Can we be like lovers,

and siblings,

and guardians,

without ever being any of it in name?

Can we care that much?

I think we’d be good at it.

We’ll call it–

Hope (Back to the wall)

How do you explain?




Please hold on.

I don’t want to think yet

that you’re not there.

I don’t want you to feel

any lack of love.

Not for an instant.

My little idea.

My tiny hope.

Please hold on.



a month

waxing, waning, waxing

again and

they tell me

for the first


the flood

it can’t be safe

i imagine

i beg


hold on

stay with me

i’ll love you


a month

the tide stems some

same day

same way

they tell me

as i tell

as tears

you, too



Physical craving

for physical sustenance,

but food burns once inside.

Unappealing for want of

another hunger

for love,

for a little laughter,

for affection out of reach.

Arms wide, like welcoming

waves on a summer beach.

Sternum cracked,

ribs ripped back,

blood pumping out to sea,

information rushing in.

Longing meets debris,

heart sick and choking,

gasping, grasping tender treasure

not quite lost in muck,

not gone to waste.

Warming-tonic-words in a bottle.

Tide rolls out and back

again, again, again.

Still standing

for that momentary sweet connection.


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