Sunday, 25 June 2017

Not Theirs but Mine

the trees are telling a
story of their 
when we knew right from wrong
this is where it will all
begin again
the battle for life

Saturday, 24 June 2017


I come from the winter people.

They sent me to this sometimes green and hot place for learning.  I thought it was an honor.  I thought it would make me rich with experience.

Since then, at least ten, maybe twenty times a day I have begged for ignorance.   This is wealth with no place to spend it.

"We will wait for you," they told me.  "We will feel every moment of your progress."  I made them swear it.

Yet even with awareness of their presence my loneliness aches so deeply that I am convinced it is burying me.  I want to go home.  But home will not have me.  Not yet.  Not when it is clear even to me that, although fatigued and battle-scarred, I am still standing.  And not until I know all that is killing these sometimes green and hot-weathered people.

Friday, 23 June 2017

Far Away

I shivered
walked past the knives 
and lived to be stabbed
a thousand more times

Thursday, 22 June 2017

What Cries in the Night

I remember them now
the dark plastic green with ridges  
the etched circles in the base that
scratched my hand 
held the dandelions I brought home
for you
the fortune laying on your bed 
it was an accident it was an accident
I never had a chance
it was an accident
I remember.

Wednesday, 21 June 2017


The second week of November I came home from the library to discover an envelope on my pillow.  At first I thought someone had mailed me a tardy condolence card, but Bryan always left mail for me on the foyer table, and the piece in question was lacking both a stamp and an address.  Curious, I picked up the mystery envelope and inserted my finger underneath the flap—only to remember Bryan telling me something at breakfast.  Something about how Bob would be coming over to the apartment that night while I was at the library, to pick Bryan up for a basketball game.  

My finger froze in place.

It couldn’t be.  There had been no letters, no glass rocks, no nothing since my first week at Bob’s apartment.  But no one else was in the habit of leaving unmarked envelopes on my pillow, and Bob, Tim's favorite messenger, had come to the apartment that night.   Who else could it be from?

Cautiously I opened the envelope.  As I withdrew the note-sized piece of paper, sparsely dotted with handwriting that I had come to know better than my own, I could feel my stomach seize up.  What if the few words on the page said something like I hate you, or Just so you know, I never loved you after all?  What if he truly were gone forever?  Bryan had taken all of my pills away.  I would have to settle for a kitchen knife this time.  Mentally composing the letter I would leave for Bryan, I lowered my eyes to read the two sentences on the page:

Saturday, 8:00 p.m.   It’s been long enough

I flipped the piece of paper over.  On the other side was the fragment of a math proof. 

My eyes filling with tears, I went to my closet.  I needed to find something good to wear.  I was going to see Tim—on Saturday, his 22nd birthday.

Tuesday, 20 June 2017

Out There

In the mirror I touch my lips
the oil from the nightmare 
dirties my fingertips
I remember thinking about balance
the teeter totters scared me
they jumped up so fast
no time

Monday, 19 June 2017


I see a man
on top of a hill underneath 
a tree
I turn to face him
we stand there for a while
the grass is green from the rain
he does not know my name
I turn to him
I open my mouth and nothing gags
he listens
I turn to run I run run run
down the hill my arms stretched wide
I dive between the tall grass
the grass is tall from the rain
he calls for the daydreamer but I am 
it is too late
he does not know my name but he knows
there is no turning back