The Knew Me

 Here it is,

the truth I am aching to say:

I have been 

a hundred versions 

of myself, 

each one more 

impossible 

than the last, 

but the one 

I liked 

the most 

is the me 

that you 

knew,

the one 

you fell 

in love with. 

Christmas Chaos

 The gifts are unwrapped, 

The paper litters the floor,

Christmas chaos here. 

1000 Letters

 They remain 

unsent:

thousands of letters 

to you,

apologies and 

accusations alike.

All the words 

I could never say,

and the ones 

that refused to remain

unsaid.

Miles

 The miles are felt,

each step harder than the last,

every single one. 

Some Day

Some days, 

the absence of you 

is heavier than 

your presence ever was. 

It pulls at my limbs, 

slowing to a stop 

even the thought of movement. 

I paint a thousand scenarios 

where you and I are happy, 

but my ink is running dry. 

I cannot keep hoping 

for a someday 

that will never come.

Again

 We have been here before,

this place, 

this awful place, 

that we both loathe.

This path is worn smooth by 

our shuffling, 

dancing around one another.

We have said these words before,

these lines, 

an endless refrain, 

have evaporated off of our tongues 

until we are dry,

and still,

and we are not done with them yet.

We will be here again: 

this place, 

these words. 

Some days, I think 

we will never find new stories 

to tell one another. 

Some nights, I think, 

this is all we will ever know. 

I Take it All Back

 There are too many words 

between us, 

so much spoken 

that should have remained 

under my tongue. 

I reach for them, 

arms outstretched 

to pull them back-

to wind them 

around my teeth 

like too much floss-

to swallow them, 

bitter and angry, 

like the seeds 

of a pepper 

too hot to let linger 

on my lips.

That has always 

been my fault, 

hasn’t it? 

My love of words, 

and my inability 

to keep them locked 

behind bared teeth.

Seasons

On the other side 

of the country, 

my grandmother 

pulls beets 

from black soil, 

her hair 

a haphazard halo. 

I plant beans 

in the warm dirt, 

and whisper 

a benediction. 

My youngest daughter 

sprinkles 

tiny seeds 

over my shoulder, 

stretches 

toward the sun. 

National Coffee Day 2020

There is no use  

denying it, beloved, 

all who know me 

know the truth is plain:

I cannot live 

without the taste 

of you 

on my lips- 

the more 

of you 

I have, 

the more I need, 

and, 

once inhaled, 

you do more 

to stir my senses 

than any other 

I have ever known. 

I am forever 

waiting 

for our next embrace, 

my darling. 

My every morning’s thought 

is of only 

you. 

Metaphor

 They should be a metaphor:

the gold coins

tucked into a brown paper bag 

like Chinese takeout 

or a field trip lunch.

They should be a metaphor:

something about 

the weight of your love, 

or a legacy passed down, 

or even, perhaps, a lesson 

about the frailty of life.

They should be a metaphor:

about the best 

things in life coming free,

or not free at all, or perhaps 

never coming until you 

have already moved on.

I just can’t help thinking,

a life without you 

makes as much sense 

as a brown paper bag 

full of gold coins.

But this isn’t a metaphor. 

Four Days

Four days 

after I 

begged her 

to chose life, 

cried 

as her breaths 

grew fainter 

and farther apart 

across the ether, 

I walked you 

into your 

last room. 

Your breath, 

labored 

and unsteady, 

your body, 

weak 

with ceaseless pain, 

still 

you found joy 

in the journey, 

pressed your head 

against my shoulder, 

stared 

through the fog 

to the water 

below. 

Tonight, 

the house is silent.

Neither of you 

here 

to comfort me 

as I grieve.

Man’s Best Friend

 Without my shadow

how will I recognize light? 

All is darkness now. 

Negotiations

 Six 

black 

boots 

shift nervously 

on my cream rug, 

as I beg 

you 

to stay. 

Please, 

Dear God, 

let her stay. 

Tubing

Today, 

they pulled 

a body 

from the lake 

as my children 

shrieked their glee 

from behind 

a boat. 

Water 

is always 

this way- 

teeming 

with life 

and death. 

Like fire

Like politics

Like love. 

Sea

Sea, she is here: 

tendrils 

gently waving 

across her back,

ripples around 

twin indentations.

See, she calls you:

beckons 

as she inches closer, 

then retreats, 

taking with her what you 

did not want to give. 

See, feel her power,

watch her 

grow dark and angry, 

furiously violent,

ripping away 

all you thought was firm.

See, let her soothe you,

rocking you 

as your own mother did, 

shhhhhh...

cradling you 

in her arms

Hidden Places

I have fallen in love with hidden places, 

a bench under the oak, 

a cave tucked into lakeshore, 

a stone fence growing moss. 

I have fallen in love with hidden places, 

an acorn hid in dirt, 

a flower nearly blooming,

an egg nestled near sky. 

I have fallen in love with hidden places, 

the skin behind your ear, 

the lines that grow with smiles, 

the mole on your right hand.

Lock and Key

Different shapes, 

perhaps, 

but the same metal;

different jobs, 

but chemistry remains. 

I cannot open 

to anyone 

but you, darling. 

And you don’t fit 

with anyone 

but me. 

It was meant to be 

this way, 

perhaps, 

we were made

so different

and so entirely 

the same.

Heaven on Earth

It is always this:

sand and water, sun and sky,

constant as your love.

Forgotten

I forgot today.
I woke up this morning and
forgot you are gone.

Reese Isabella

She came home today,

tiny and perfect,

wearing the outfit 

I wore on my first

adventure. 

Her parents drove 

carefully 

to avoid the riots 

that promised 

to make her world 

a better one. 

Isn’t that what 

we all want? 

For our children to be 

safe and healthy? 

For peace on earth 

to be more than just 

on Christmas? 

She came home today,

so small and pink

new to this world

that is changing. 

Broken

My friend’s father, 

white

and wealthy, 

discharged his gun 

into the dirt

and the trespassers

stopped painting mud lines 

across his fields 

long enough 

to send him 

to jail.

Also white

also wealthy,

and bored in the ways 

their privilege 

bought for them, 

they claimed 

deadly weapons 

and assault, 

although no one 

was touched, 

no blood pooled 

between broken stalks. 

Across the country, 

another man, 

with a gun 

strapped to his side, 

killed a black man 

with his knee, 

and went home 

for dinner. 

For George

I can’t write a poem about this.

It is awful, indescribably awful, to watch the places I know so well go up in flame. To know that men I know have fought so hard against one another, people who, under different circumstances, may have shared a beer in my backyard, talking over the noise as their children ran screaming through a sprinkler. It is heartbreaking to be so far away from my friends who are risking their lives to convince us they matter, and even worse to be glad for the safety that distance affords me, to feel guilt flooding over relief.

I can’t write a poem about this.

I don’t know enough and I feel too much and no vocabulary could possibly convey even half of what needs to be said. So I weep, and I pray, and I donate, and I educate, and I advocate and I listen. And I know it won’t bring him back, won’t bring justice to his killers or comfort to his family, but I can promise this: my children will know his name. We will not be complacent or complicit.

What are the words

the name of 

the heaviness in my gut, 

tightness of chest, 

heart with too little 

blood to pump, 

too thick with grief 

to reach 

the tips of my fingers? 

What can I call 

the ache, 

the hollow 

that cannot be filled, 

the falling apart 

when you are too far 

to pull me together? 

What unfathomable magic, 

to paint the sorrow 

into neat letters, 

to spell out 

loneliness 

and confine it 

to the page. 

Beach Betrothal

Even a puddle,

shallow enough 

to walk through 

wetting nothing 

but the bottom 

of my shoes, 

reminds me 

of the lake 

we swam in, 

young 

and in love.

You asked me 

to be yours, 

staring out 

into the waves 

as if you couldn’t 

bear to look 

directly at me, 

but holding my hand 

as if I 
was the only one

who could rescue you 

from drowning. 

Each time the sun 

kisses the shore,

(the way you 

traced kisses 

across my neck)

she finds her 

reflection 

on the water, 

two halves 

of the same 

whole. 

It is raining now, 

and in the morning

when we wake, 

the world will be 

full of tiny lakes,

each one, 

a way that

I have loved you. 

Each one, 

a day that

you have held
my heart.

Lightning

Falling in love is like 

being struck by lightning. 

Sure, it hurts at first, 

squeezes you closed 

so tightly that your muscles 

will burn with the memory, 

overpowers all of your senses 

so that all you can hear, 

smell, 

taste, 

see 

is that face, 

this face, 

(YOUR face) 

burned across your eyelids, 

leaves your hair singed 

and every nerve ending 

standing at attention, 

but darling, 

what a story we will tell, 

of the lightning that struck, 

not just once

not even twice, 

but the quicksilver awakening 

each time we fell in love. 

The Octopus

The female octopus 

resolutely 

stands guard, 

not even leaving 

her eggs 

to hunt. 

She eats 

her own arm instead, 

stays, starving, 

to protect her eggs. 

She blows bubbles 

over them,

oxygenating 

the ocean floor. 

Your mother, 

smaller now 

than when you last 

held her, 

gives you pieces 

of herself 

each time 

you see her: 

an eye, 

to see the truth, 

a foot, 

to stand firm, 

a finger, 

to point you 

in the direction 

you must go.

Her hand 

brushes your cheek 

and you remember 

summer nights that 

she whispered 

cool words across 

your back 

as you lay 

restless 

in the dark. 

This is a mother’s love, 

to be always giving, 

even when there is 

nothing more 

to give. 

May the Fourth

Call it what you want:

fate, destiny, the force.

It’s unstoppable. 

I Know

I know your voice 

like I know my 

own heartbeat:

I sway to it, 

aimlessly dance.

I know the weight 

of your hand on 

my shoulder, 

the peace it brings

isn’t just chance. 

I know the lines 

on your eyes

when they twinkle, 

the wrinkle that centers

your brow.

I know the world 

makes more sense

when I’m with you, 

I wish I was 

with you right now. 

Shakespeare’s Gift

You, still Romeo,
me, forever Juliet:
the stars still align.

Three Trees

My children play 

in the shadow of 

three trees, 

taken from 

the same land 

my grandfather 

called home. 

They are rooted
deep, here, 

in the home 

that did not
want them, 

that never meant 

to feed them 

from its own 

black earth. 

Returning 

could only 
mean death 
to them now,
limbs pruned back 

and roots shaken
free of dirt, 

but they cannot 

belong here either, 

no matter 

how long their 

shadows 

are painted 

across the 

water. 

Fortune Cookie Fate

It remains, my love,
the red thread, binding us all.
It will never break.

Bagworms

Today,
I tried to
write a poem
about bagworms:
about being small
and scared
and limited,
and someday
learning to fly,
maybe,
or perhaps
about wrapping
myself
in a green tree
and holding on
for dear life,
or maybe
the poem was about
how alone
we are
insignificant,
but together
we can topple
entire forests...

maybe the poem
was just about
bagworms.
Maybe someday
I’ll finish it.

There is No

There is no 

love 

without 

grief, 

my darling. 

How can 

you say 

you have 

loved 

if your heart 

has not 

broken, 

once, 

twice, 

a hundred times? 

Loving 

anything means 

opening yourself 

up to be 

hurt 

by it, 

but without the 

pain, 

how would 

we know 

that the 

love 

was true? 

I am still 

grieving you, 

even on days that 

I wake 

to find a 

smile tucked 

into my cheeks. 

Haibun #1

The road, once mine entirely, is shared now with too many. Flowers I do not have names for paint the hills, are pressed to mud as we are forced off the path. Bees work quickly, visiting each bloom left standing before the mowers come. Already they are preparing for winter, for the death of spring and the coming chill. 

We will learn this, too:

the art of busyness and 

being well-prepared. 

Chicks Will Break Your Heart

When I was 

eight years old, 

my father 

brought home 

an eyas 

with a broken wing. 

This is not a metaphor. 

It is not to say:

I have held in my hands,

trembling,

something that was 

born for the sky;

I have fed 

a wild thing 

all of my love, 

knowing that it 

would leave me 

bleeding and 

alone. 

What I mean is:

when I was 

eight years old, 

my father introduced 

the art of heartbreak 

to me. 

He taught me 

how to love a thing 

and get 

nothing 

in return. 

In You Too

In you, 

I find 

all the best 

of me, 

but

all worst 

parts of me 

are in you, 

too. 

My Mother’s Obituary

When I write 

my mother’s obituary, 

I will start at the 

beginning:

Once upon a time, 

there was a beautiful 

apple tree, 

and on it, 

two golden apples, 

sharing seeds. 

From the ground, 

it was impossible
to tell where
one apple ended, 

and the other began. 

I will tell them:

Once there lived 
a bird 

who fell in love 

with a fish, 

and she would spend 

every day 

on the sand 

by the water’s edge, 

waiting to glimpse 

his glimmering scales 

in the sunlight. 

I will say:

By the time you 

read this, 

she will be gone. 

But she lived 

her whole life 

as a love letter 

to him. 

I hope 

you will read it 

and understand.

Love (Means Never Saying Goodbye)

This is love:

rejoicing in 

your absence;

knowing, 

as much as it hurts, 

you are better now,

without me.

Knowing, 

as long as I live, 

my heart 

will keep you 

close. 

Heaven Sees Red

Colors died with you-
Everything is dull and gray.
Red has turned to black.

In Memoriam

When I was young, 

the sunrises I loved best 

were the ones painted 

behind your trees. 

I would wake, 

already energized, 

hoping to beat the sun 

out of bed. 

Your dogs would follow, 

sometimes as many as four, 

furry guards and 

confidantes. 

When we returned, 

breathless from racing 

the birds, 

you would fry pancakes 

and flip eggs, 

pour grape juice 

from the fruit 

of your vines, 

insist that I eat more, 

just a little more, 

as your cats 

anointed my ankles 

with silky fur 

and silent prayers. 

We would lie in your bed, 

watching Shirley Temple 

or old Dick Van Dyke episodes, 

or reading the books 

that would become 

my dearest escapes. 

You would give me gifts- 

a butterfly brooch 

with zirconia wings, 

a book, 

a calendar, 

some mittens, 

a knife. 

But they were never 

as beautiful 

as your hills, 

bathed in sunlight, 

as your sky, 

clear 

and blue 

as your love.