Love letter

I like that my smile lights up a room and my eyes tell stories. My breasts sustained a life for six months without hesitation. I honor them and am in awe of their perkiness and power. My shoulders are strong and have a beautiful line, but I love my hands.

I love my hands the best because they tell stories and hold memory in ways I can’t explain. My hands give pleasure and have caught babies. These ten digits have launched aircraft and made the most delicate gnocchi. With my hands I’ve soothed sick children and held the face of lovers. My hands clasp in prayer and splay in ecstasy. My hands rub my feet and hold a warm cup of tea after hours of exploring on cold winter days. And on those nights that I feel too tired, if I haven’t held a pen to paper, my hands ache for the need to tell my story and I cannot sleep until I comply with their need to remember the day. Yes, I love my hands- they are the tellers, guides, and creators of a well-lived life.

sunday wandering

what began as getting coffee and ice has become sunday walk day. stopping under shade trees and jotting down notes. pondering the shape of a magnolia seed pod. speaking to a crone woman tending her small yard connected to a thimble of a home. watching a squirrel obsess over its place on a tree branch nearing three stories overhead. wondering if one day we will romanticize returning to earth the way we now romanticize colonizing space.

today is the day

time

a construct of man

doesn’t shift with the light.

when I woke today

the clock read 17 minutes

later than I expected.

morning’s light held a softer glow.

the air imperceptibly cooler,

considered a breeze.

today is the day

summer begins its

long

goodbye.

Morning work

Yesterday, I lost my job and will need another one, but for now I have a gift of time. This morning I woke, made coffee, jotted a few thoughts in my notebook, then sat down at my manual typewriter. Thoughts on yesterday’s experience poured forth through my fingers. It was wonderful to start writing and not have to stop because I had to check in with the office.

All told, I wrote for almost two hours in three different mediums, from which I have a couple lines I am truly happy with, a micro-story that needs editing, and a lot to work with if it later suits my daemon. All to say, as the writers reading this can attest, writing is a process that is ultimately done for no one, but rather to save yourself. I don’t have any expectations of my writing, but I give space for the ideas to come through me and that they do.

Over the years, I’ve become less concerned with how or why or where they come, but simply have accepted them as a given. The words that come through me, at times, tell my story, but more so they simply use me to get out into the world. I often don’t know what they want to say or who their audience is intended to be. The words coming through me must know there isn’t much insofar as an audience so I believe they simply must need to exist. It’s my role to let them use me to lurch into this world – some idea on the wind that I am blessed to catch as a sail and give direction – though they more oft direct me.

perfect imperfections

She is not the girl who will cause a scene. You can take her anywhere.

She pulls off Dior as easily as she changes the oil in her car.

She’ll eat funnel cake and thinks Jesus is a badass, but understands why atheists disavow religion. No topic is off limits and if she doesn’t know, she’ll listen and learn.

She is the girl who will give you space, because she needs hers, and understands some seasons are all about hockey.

She’s not jealous and more fun than you’ve ever had. Spontaneous, but measured. Beautiful and kind. If the world is on fire, she’s the one who will not let you burn.

Her fearlessness and self-confidence are a stunning combination and in exchange for being by her side, she only asks one thing …

Who are you?

She doesn’t need the answer today and she may never ask it directly, but in everything she does her heart pushes her to be better and her soul fears she will never know she’s enough.

So as her lover, who are you? What are your edges? Can you try to love people simply as they are? Can you live in joy, but savor the cruel morbidity of life? Can you make things awkward and laugh at yourself? And when she wakes screaming in the middle of the night, can you hold her and not ask why?

In one moment

In one moment

years are cleared

memories of tears and time

hope for forever erased

In one moment

your shape in my heart

is filled by a greater need

for my shape to exist.

24 august 2019

Hidden from sight

She has been hidden from sight for too long.

a gift

wedding …

she asked what he wanted to learn

& bought the guitar he would

not get to know

he asked what she needed

to write

later she asked for space and time

because so many words were buried

he didn’t understand

the gift sat untouched

but now, 6 years past divorce

in her window she sits

pounding keys in her underwear

nine inch nails blaring

with keys banging

23 aug 2019