I miss the smell of cigarettes
Wafting across a round, white table.
From strange old chairs,
We drink tea
And anything we eat with it
Is dubbed a crumpet.
The smell of Marlboros also came to me
From a basement
The only light filtering in
Through small rectangular windows near the ceiling.
The smoke would reach for me across a desk
Filled with papers,
And ring marks from her wine glass.
This smoke gave form
To words that would begin to crush me
Under their immense weight.
I am walking past restaurants on Grand River
That are closed for Thanksgiving
Listening idly to the syllables
Of a language I have come to love,
But do not understand.
We pause beside a fountain and,
Cigarette held delicately between his lips,
One of the men holds his hand in front of a lighter.
He breathes life into the familiar orange speck
Now burning in the chilly air.
The smoke drifts toward me, and I inhale deeply
Relishing this chance to go back.
With my whole body, I remember
What used to be
And what it has become
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 8:07 AM UTC
Before I moved here, I didn’t know the spiders came out at night.
I’d lived in a few places before
That had thin, long legged shower spiders,
And corner spiders which were mostly a nuisance, and cowardly at heart.
But this September I moved back to the city,
Where the sturdier, blue collar spiders live
Apparently.
I am grateful to go about my days unmolested
By thoughts of spiders
On my shoulder, in the kitchen, in the bathroom.
These city spiders seem content
At their outposts on the balcony railing.
In the evening,
When I take my tea out to the balcony,
The spiders who work the third shift
Have come out to their webs to conduct their nightly duties.
I respect their politeness
And their excellent craftsmanship.
I imagine we are watching the people come and go
In the parking lot below us.
Mar 8
Mar 8, 2026 at 7:59 AM UTC
Two lines converged but
Before our strides lined up as we entered
I had made up my mind
Before our entrance
And he had made up his mind too
Though in this matter
He had no right
Were I a selfish woman
Or a woman at all
It would not have mattered how little unselfish kindness he was made of
For I would not have given way to his want
I would have known the value of the secret garden I possessed within
Of no value to anyone but myself
But of value to me like a splash of paint to a yet uncolored canvass
However I was not a woman
I was without firm identity
I was, most importantly, selfless.
And when a selfish wish
Is paired with a selfless heart
A black hole is formed
Which rips the self of one
Invisibly away.
And so when he asked
Though he had no right
I gave over my self
Which is to say autonomy
To the black hole
And as a woman now, I am incomplete
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 10:42 AM UTC
It reminds me of a deep breath in space
When you touch me
I become a fish, dancing on the shore
Rhythmically lapped by water
But never enough
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 9:45 PM UTC
I am irate
I hate my flaking space
My creaking personal facade is fake
I am meeting my brown and crumbling fate
I am rust, a lust for solid iron personalities I cannot satiate.
Feb 19, 2017
Feb 19, 2017 at 2:19 AM UTC
I am beat up
By the tides of course,
But my heart does not feel the watery weight of feeling.
I fear this ocean wrings me dry
Despite the tides of emotion
They lap at my skin
I'll just drink a tea
Sweeten it with warm memories
I'll let the waves wring me dry
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 5:26 PM UTC
That stress does not control my lips
Or my change my mind
It only breaks down walls
And it's the truth I didn't want to show
That rushes out
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
Maybe you're ****** jazzed when you find it,
maybe it grows on you,
maybe you wear it out but it makes you feel things,
and you go back to it when you need comforting.
The best music is the song you've worn out with love over the years,
the old favorite,
the one you appreciate
not for newness but for familiarity
and wonder
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 3:10 PM UTC
One day we will all be gone
The only whispers that fill the halls
Will be the wind
And several cockroaches
The walls will remember us
But to the air and bugs
We have never existed
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 7:52 AM UTC
Poetry is the
***** napkin we use to
Wipe moods from our hearts
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC