My grandmother never could say,
"I'm full."
So she filled cookie jars and pie tins and Bundt pans because
they were also
just a little bit hollow.
She emptied herself into children and bathtub wine and her rosary beads
and they were full.
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 12:17 PM UTC
My heart is not inside me.
It is a millstone on my chest.
I sleep propped
to ease the weight.
No improvement.
Take two of these.
Get some rest.
Call me if you worsen.
May 5
May 5, 2026 at 5:29 AM UTC
Doesn't he realize
That I am not like
A water fountain
To a child,
Worth only a passing thirsty
Thought.
Apr 23
Apr 23, 2026 at 2:54 PM UTC
The piano bench is harder tonight.
But she's there, ankles crossed,
her skirt riding slightly up over her knee,
and I follow the line of her leg down to the strap of her heel.
She looks up from her gin and tonic --
I can breathe again.
This is our handshake,
as reliable as the swinging lantern of a lighthouse.
I have my bearings;
I slide over the keys.
This one is her favorite,
her toe tapping along.
One night I said,
you were the inspiration.
She just closed one eye and looked at me from the side of the other.
She might've smiled.
Can't recall.
This one is her favorite.
She always stops drinking and
puts her glass down to listen.
If you sat next to her,
you might hear her hum.
She uncrosses her ankles.
This one is her favorite.
One table to the left,
one table back.
Her French twist -- I remember that's what it's called -- lies cradling her head.
Her lipstick is thinner.
Third chorus and she stands,
and as she leaves I see the
seams of her stockings
are crooked.
Apr 23
Apr 23, 2026 at 2:47 PM UTC
The lighthouse
wishing a heedful journey,
beckoning the weary sailor,
the lost traveler,
it murmurs:
Better to succumb
to the hypnotic swing of the
keeper's lantern,
like a mother's arms releasing and welcoming,
than drift untethered.
So, bid me safe passage,
bid me fair weather,
bid me home and gone.
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 6:28 PM UTC
How do I answer
The blues man's call?
When you sing me a song
Of how I have saved you and
Lifted you up
Left you down and dusty
And quoted the verses that all men
All creeds have sung
You cannot make an exhale
Of my inhale
I am not your trumpet
I cannot hold your whisky or
Sing along the crocodile song
But perhaps I am the tapping toe
That matches your rhythm
And waits for the last bar
Apr 22
Apr 22, 2026 at 6:25 PM UTC