unpaved roads
where will we go
tumbling between brick and brick
latching on to a shoulder sack
filled to the brim with burden
in it we found places for memory
places for love and hope
places for fear and pain
and a big gaping hole
for the ever growing grief
that never seems to fall out
so we head to the lake
and to the sea
because the rocks we hold
are too big to try skipping
across puddles

Right at the seam of the blue lake
childhood runs through the sand
I, cautiously keep my feet on the rocks
leaving behind new footprints
laughing about what still makes us kids
leaning against the fallen tree trunks
that never abandon us to find our balance

I reach out, with both hands
and between *******
are worlds, and worlds, and worlds

if by chance, with this spring
we go on to bloom
with new cuts
and citrus slathered over my hands
I bask in the beautiful scent
and tremble with the pain
just as you once said
It’s how things go
when life hands over  
the lemons and tangerines
we, barely prepared  
still coming into new shoes

But funny enough
here we are
I guess we never asked
the tulips and roses
how much it actually hurt
to burst through a bud
and bloom

playing catch with conversations
passing our thoughts
on the taste of the sea
and the way things glisten
under the glow of hindsight
this rain, feels all too maroon
and the roads, like veins
carry forward the spring gloom
I dusted off my shoulders
Just for this today
so, we could sit in the presence
of silence, and a quiet peace
with the pattering of a gentle storm
in between each heartbeat
bouncing between words and worlds
throwing out into the wide open
how we feel about time
just as it passes us by

Last time when the dust turned blue
a new kind of rain erupted
like pellets bouncing off the ground
realizations poured over our heads
last time I laid flat on a road
and challenged the force of decisional wind
protesting the passage of time
swallowing images of mountain range
from the highest point in the city
last time I felt so dearly in love
with the color of the sky
with the way things go,
with the touch of new life
last time I got to know my own breathing
was when, just like this,
in seasonal change, fragments of old self
came to accompany on a journey
through a new day

Someone used to say
That spring begins and ends
Like a transient midday breeze

When the colour of the tulip fades
To an old pale yellow
You, grown out of your sorrow
Will stand ahead of the horizon
Ready to live, ready to breathe

up and over hills
we go, we go
but on the drive in
those hills
those wonderful hills
the ones that catch my breath
and lock it in their grass roots
the impossible to climb
but on the drive in
so wonderful to see

Branched between two oaks
I took it all in
the water, the open breeze
blended it all together
with the feeling of emptiness
and poured it into the ground
where the sun never goes
where things never grow
where the earth is barren
until something splits wide open
maybe it's the ground
or a feeling of living

In one split moment, my mother had sliced open grief right in front of me, an afternoon snack she called it. She sprinkled it with salt and pepper, plating it beside the apples that were going bad. We sat on the couch, the plate between us. Someday you’ll remember me, someday you will remember the taste of peculiar things. Like the burn of the pepper when it’s paired with something sweet and ****, and you will sit in that feeling, she warned, as I am today. I ask her to tell me something interesting, to which she would laugh and say, you’re the one who leaves every day, you must have something better to share than I do. All I had was something about walking the lines of the world, with my head down. I don’t have much to fill our silences with, except that I take her soft hands, and in them are stories, many pasts, many feelings, and I hold them. Someday you’ll remember me, and on that day, you’ll split open grief, pour it into your glass of half empty and half full, burning through the day, with the taste of pepper on your tongue.

with frayed edges
a little realization sits in the midst
of the ripples in the river
floating toward the unsuspecting  
like us, when we are caught up
in our best moments
until those frayed edges
momentarily
barely brushing against our skin
leaving each hair standing straight
and the absence of being
the absence of existing
and the absence of those
now far gone
sits with us, here,
with frayed edges

Here on this ledge
where many come to sit
in solitude, or with company
they leave behind pieces of their grief,
fragments of their love, seeds of their hope
stopping to take a breath
swallowing their words
for a minute of silence

and every time, I plant these things
with the little dandelions,
that make you sneeze
so there's something to blame
for the red eyes

because nothing blooms here
without carrying
someone's story
for you to read, for you to feel.

What we’ve come to know
about being human
is to grow in phases
to take pain and grief
from the ends of the bookshelf
and to stir them into the atmosphere

breathing in and out
until the silence between each breath
was a bridge to relief

it was never to solve the puzzle in a day
or to sort through all the pieces in
a strategic manner
but to feel the joy of frustration
the strange joy of trial and error

What are the things you hold onto?

lavender petals
and oceans of breeze
I twist wind around my fingers
because it’s so free
I cling on to departures
& doorway exit chats
I grip table conversations
where napkins fall to the floor
and we unknowingly
covered in crumbs and crumbled
pastry, coffee and lavender tea
I hold onto
friendships and moments
and when the ground starts shifting
I still
like static wind
like irony

walking those shorelines
and rocky borders
between the heart & mind

on a mend
in an effort to learn
the signature of each lung

with the hope
that this breathlessness
parallels the transience of life

don't forget to look up from the sand,
from the little voice
between the two sounds of a working heart

the ocean raises a salute
for those moments
that never leave us

To have forgotten
a thousand mornings of blaring sun

here, with April on the horizon
and a flit of transitional snow

my heart pulsing in my hands
my soul pulsing in my heart

here, with a new day on the horizon
here, with new places to go

to have remembered
a thousand evenings, a thousand endings

holding little sewing pins
to flag and label
the delicate nerves
of reminiscence
and the friable folds
of understanding
we always stand here
put on spot
to answer, to name
what is laid before us
all its pieces and parts
and we always struggle
searching other eyes
to find a sense of comfort
that no one here
feels entirely sure
of how to go about it

I feel that same Sunday chaos
in the kitchen, fingers digging
into orange skin

a trailing scent of spring
citrus blooms into the air

here, in this moment
with one hand
and terrible penmanship
I write my name

and with the other
I hold the feeling
of missing things

Here, where they said something about the wind, and I opened my mouth wide for a storm that tasted like sailboats. There, where I stood behind curtains and danced around the idea of being free. Here, where I hopped between puddles, trying to find pockets in the road to bury the rocks from all the silence in my throat. There, where I first learned how it feels to hear yourself, to forgive yourself. Here, where I searched the shoreline, looking for a moon in the reflection and found a fragmented self. There, where I finally stuck my hand into the big belly of fear. Here, where I first learned that it was ok if you didn’t land on your feet. There, where I began to appreciate the weighted days more than light ones. Here, where I tore apart my words and swallowed their jagged edges. There, where I let things go, let things be. Here, where they said something about the wind and I kept my mouth shut, letting the storm pass.

You would say something about the push and pull of every day. And we would plop down with ideas. Think of this and think of that.
Throwing words like imagine and wouldn't it be amazing out into the open. You would even make plans, with patterns and colours for something to go on your wall, your own wall, whenever you'd have a wall. How many of those open docs do you have on your computer, with half-finished chapters and riveting denouements? I know it's hard to believe the people we once used to be. And sometimes fistfuls of carpet can feel like your only way to grip onto the world. Sometimes it feels easier to tear yourself limb from limb than look for your voice. It feels easier to sink into your bed, asleep or searching for sleep than to walk the miles ahead. Waking up every morning, de-shelling yourself, and stepping outside of who you are and used to be can make your bones ache deeply. There isn't much to say about the push and pull of everyday, except that there is a wall, your wall, and it's blank.

If we could hazard a guess, tomorrow is the day everything changes. That's the famous phrase. Something about the way the pink roses on the counter stand so tall and proud. When I was young I envisioned I would be like them someday. Deep into my womanhood, tully aware of the force I have to push with to keep my shoulders up. But I would do it, that's what I believed. These days it's enough to hold the weight of breathing, and enough to move limb after limb. To keep up with the minutes and still meet them up ahead with a gracious smile. On repeat, morning sun to evening moon. Some days my limbs they move me, others I move with them too. That's how it goes. Sometimes the roses are drooping, sometimes they bloom instead. All the time they are alive and present, standing, even as they shed.

there it was,
the whole world
at your fingertips
and yet you chose
all the roads of broken glass
and abandoned winds
to plant this pain
in places that ache
for new trees
right here in this home
in this silenced soul
in these tired bones
somehow you chose
to walk with me instead
of running ahead

there it was,
all that I know
about love

When daylight settles onto the back window. Right through the little crack, it tears itself apart into an array of color, splayed all over the hardwood floor. Outside is nice and lovely, winter grabbed its coat last week and signed off on the year. I haven't gone outside yet, I'm afraid that if I do, I may never want to come back in. What if the sensation of a new spring grips around my feet, pulling me toward the soil. What if we accidentally let ourselves fall so far into a new ground, that we begin to root and grow. I stay sitting at the table right beside my thoughts. Someone said something about change once, but my throat tickles every time I try to re-introduce myself. All this to say, I'm not afraid of the spring or what it might bring, or how sweet its fruit. I don't want to open the door, because I worry winter's still standing on the other side. Before I knew it, it would say, "I think I forgot something" and settle back in with us. A fresh sheet of snow clouds would blanket the daylight, and all its colors would fade. I shake off the chill. I guess I'll stay here, and look from inside out.

I often find this desire to rinse my lungs
under the tap and wash out all this debris
comes from that same feeling
of sitting on this carpet floor
and staring out into the open fields
thinking just how remarkably vast these voids are,
resembling the oceans
I would cross if it meant you would understand
how much I believe in everything you can do
against all the sand and dust
through these voids with cleared lungs
I'd come back with boats carrying
little ways to tell you about all the things
I believe you'll get through

Look back and see
just how remarkably vast
are these oceans you have crossed

I scrolled through my camera roll. Here’s a photo from five years ago, it’s still fresh in the mind. In it were canola fields and a glittering wind. I could still feel the breeze lingering on my fingertips. It was me and a camera I no longer own, my dad, who, in his impatience, still drove me out to a field, outside city lines, so that I could take a photo of the sunset, for a class. There are some simple things, simple pictures. No person, or place of any significance, but they sit on you, right on your chest. They weigh heavy. I wonder why. Background set. Now I will look and feel the touch of yesterday. Swallowing every color in the picture and letting its sounds ring in my ear. I wonder why. No person or place of significance, but it sits on me, right on my chest.

The brilliance of a clouded morning
is often overlooked in memory of the sun
I have been twirling these thoughts
between my fingers for far too long
yearning to reach out through broken windows
to immerse my hand in a dense morning fog
not knowing what will find them
and to take this ache in my bones
that tends to follow me home
rinse it under the falling rain
waiting for the sun, waiting for a new day
until morning comes in a quiet dream
and I wring out these bones
and yesterday's clothes
throwing them into laundry baskets
woven from this tired soul
and taking it all out to dry

To be there under the shade of lemon trees
where my fingers can dig into the terracotta earth
or to be here, where cold nips at my skin
in summer and the spring, little hints of winter
always alive and well, in every greeting and farewell
I am, as you can see, often divided
between oceans and places, sometimes in the same room
I am divided between corners and angles
where I can have the best view
where I can hear the most and feel the least
where I can see the perfect way the sun dances
into our space around noon,
when it hits the glass just right
and divides, into colors, into blooming flowers
no matter the season, no matter the year  
I divided, shuffle around as if I were a photographer
Searching for the angle where it hits your face,
coming to light
coming to life

To bind the books
I have written in a consciousness
about all the little things
that manage a heavy weight
the things I pour into my mouth
along with the endlessness
and swish it around like mouthwash
hoping to taste the peculiar flavour of wonder
enough to forget the pain from
dunking my hands into buckets of wood chips
and fishing around for the next steps
retracting my fingers from future mess
that are now covered in the challenge
of scarring and healing

Sometimes, it feels as if my arms
are reaching out to the sky
as gravity pulls everything I am
all the way down, beyond the ground
into those little spaces
inside my head
where I scold myself
and say everything is dead
where I run my hands
against jagged edges
looking for reasons to bleed
but even then, like two ropes
tight around my wrists
or better yet, two hands
with an endless grip
hope, or the glass dish on the top shelf
whatever it is, it pulls and pulls
till I flood, and those little spaces
vanish, momentarily

Turning pages, fast asleep
I dreamt of waking
and just letting things be
while threading this 5:00 am sun
between my fingers
braiding the rays into tethers
that hold onto yesterday
and today, without alteration

What a story it would read

wide open
taking steps toward new seas
twirling this breeze between my fingers
horizons of possibility
what to wish for?
but to float
when all else sinks

Harvesting all the blooms
the cherry red dahlias and sunlit marigolds and buds with hues of ambient mornings thinking of how it feels to touch the sunrise and upholster the wind to this couch
where a turbulent heart rate tends to rest

wondering if in all the laughter and friendship and years and years
of things to talk about, to hold onto
to catch distances in my hands
and rest them on my palms
with all the wonderful things you will do

I work in my garden growing mornings
ones I pray will bring upon a rain
that will shower on the places
where you happen to be
that will sink into your grounds
and give you everything you need
To flourish

To witness the subtlety of change
in all things that breathe

To grow in this new delicate rain
and spring's easy breeze

To be the colour of water
when it's finally set free

Somewhere in all the mixing
of these herbs and spices
I was caught in a scent of remembering
the way my mother crushes
crushed black pepper
because it is never fine enough
And the way she closes her eyes
sprinkling in salt, cayenne, cumin...
never measured, never the same
Just hands with so much to remember
hands with so much weight
holding the past and present
holding our hair and the house,
holding her pain and my pain
holding a ladle and my hand
smiling and laughing
I chase her down for a hug
as she runs from one *** to another
we giggle and giggle,
and the flame feels cold
unparalleled to her warmth

These sounds of silence
Rumble and roar
I’m in a constant state of questioning
Asking what love is,
Filling in the gaps between all my questions
With the things we saved for March
Relishing in the idea of spring
And what it means to bloom
Peeling away at citrus,
Reaching for the plums and nectarines
In the icebox, scarfing down cooled melon
Picking at peonies and daffodils
Thinking about tea but hating its taste
I was never a morning person
But the sun these days is so new

But it’s when the winter creeps back
And I awake to a morning frost
Bits of past, pieces of December
Pine trees and heating cars
I remember the worth of remembering
And the reality of how time moves
And how all these questions
Sprinkle down with snow, rain,
sun rays, or leaves
never leaving, never eased
only knowing that I don’t know
and that seasons don’t return; they just pass

I twist this discomfort between my fingers thinking of how to find the places I would be holding onto maps of all my searches
If I was in this world, by myself
where would I be but under the weight of it all?
Sinking into loss, folding all these thoughts and packing them away
trying to pinpoint the moments
in which I could define love
The falsehood of this bravery
grasps onto my steps, forwards and backwards
I keep walking in the same spot
sitting among moments and memories
and everything I've yet to define
knowing, however, that I recognise love
and everything it is
since the moment I could breathe
it's been in the spaces between my mother's fingers
waiting for me

purple, yellow bruises
from playing outside
and picking up pebbles
to throw at tomorrow
and chase it away
the sky was never blue
as we never had enough strength
to look up past our little heads
engulfed in the wonders of chalk and road
when secrets were worth flower petals
and flew away with the wind
unlike the ones we hold today
with aching shoulders
and burning pains
from looking up and only up
and witnessing how fast
these colours change
terracotta, navy, to grey
as all these pebbles wash away

All these weighted apologies spill
from my hands onto the wintered ground
There are moments in the day
when all the quiet burns
and the smoke inhabits these walls
but the possession of this rain
is never enough to wash out these lungs
or dilute this volatile pain
I was never good at speaking
always shied away from crowds
you were never one to stay quiet
always ran toward the loud
A cycle of oscillating seasons
I'm too in love with hating the cold
and far too familiar with the sound of rain but these birds, they're always calling
to new mornings and a sky of gold
and you sit here, waiting to hear your name as I clean up all the spills
from these weighted apologies
and pails of winter rain

To sit here and scale our memories
looking for worth in wondering
searching for pieces in the past
I left all my paints and colorful hues
and moved forward with potfuls of rain thinking that to love is constant
and to lose is momentary pain
but all these versions of lives lived
all the people we said we were
and all the things we hope to become
stir and boil in this water
and winter tells us to stay inside
but this heart keeps racing
aching to feel the sun and the snow
to tear apart the days
and take these fractures
as testimonies of all that we braved

Scents of satsuma and cinnamon
bottled up into reminders of the little things
this blurred motion has created a mirage
of incomprehensible reasons
to forget our love for patience
from strings of silver threads
and sentimental alliances
woven into patterns of picture frames
completely blurred, alive in motion
together, a collage of all the times
stillness couldn't find its breath
and laughter took us by the shoulders
shaking and shaking
till we fell into a rhythm of remembrance
with all the little things
bottled up in an illusion of permanence

To my father, who loves telling stories

Pomegranate seeds,
splatter over the countertops
your laughter heightens their fragrance
a dish rag in my hands
a halfway story exaggerating between your lips
mouthfuls and mouthfuls of past
something so simple about this morning
a togetherness of complex mirage
sun pierces through this sinking heart
and a strong desire to ease the pain
that has sunken into the cracks
overcomes me
I wonder what love is,
If it exists beyond this moment as anything true
and you, still lost in your narrations
tell me all about living
and this wondering finds ease
just as I, in your presence

Dish soap-soaked hands
Dreams stuck to the bottom of these ***** pots
I wash and dry
still thinking about the rain in September And holding onto drops of July
Silence, a gentle hum, an occasional cough my eyes fixed on searching for all those planets
And blue moons
But never making it past the windowpane home to reflections of an unrecognizable face

I revel in how fast this life changes
and how much I miss the rain

a world
of distant voices and glittering echoes
painted with a thousand sunsets
that I've poured into my eyes
to find some relief from this tiredness
Days walk beside me, years run ahead
I wish I could collect all the silences
between all that I've said
and fill them in with things
I've lost to time
Thank you notes spill from my hands to yours
The permanence of things begins to fade among dialogue once shared
There is a world I have spent building
With stories and reminders
you left for me
I hope you'll find in it
the transience of an anger
that ceases to be

A trace of light
That's all you and I look for
when those mountains fade
behind descended clouds
and that ache in our shoulders
crumbles under the fire of this rain

the moon and all its pieces
lost to all these thoughts
you and me, the same and most different awake and restless
the silver lining of this charcoal moon
is getting harder to find

until comes this eruption of warmth
and a storm of pattering fear
that if I start counting seconds
you might disappear
so, I guess it goes without saying
everything you've always known

these nights go by in wonder
of how to build you a home

In disguise,
a hopeless wonder
Apprehensive and paranoid
I leap towards the open
my feet sticking to the field grass
My memories build worlds and voids,
steps and ladders shy away from my path Something tells me to climb upward
latch onto these fears I house within my shoes,
maybe take off the glasses I wear as an excuse,
to ignore your outstretched hand
But in disguise, a hopeless wonder
A small shallow breath
Accepting defeat against my stubbornness
This fear is nothing but distance I strive to keep
Because if I give you all of these words
and instead of grasping them tightly
they slip between your fingers
fallen, forgotten, meaningless.
then what?

from your name
I have built a world
It's made of memories
And all the things you loved
I stole pieces of the moon
from the nights we could not sleep
where you told me stories of your past
and ways for me to be
and now they illuminate
all the city streets
of houses and homes
that you have grieved
and I paint this world
onto the walls of this place
that whisper your name
every day to me
so that I can walk past
and remember
all the ways you taught me to breathe

And with this hope...

When all these walls turn into doors
Oceans into rivers with bridges
Mountains into hills, hills to fields

Will you then realize
The potency of all your dreams
When you tell them to me
They invade all my air space
My thoughts and my sleep
And I hold onto them for you
Thinking of ways to draw maps
Reciting them in my prayers
Waiting for the day
When all this hope I carry
Returns home to you

And with this hope...

I exist in a world where you are never without dreams

The inheritance of loss
Often told as a tragic story
I sit here writing
while gripping onto the edges of every passing day
hoping to change the narrative of this pain
I'm sorry to my daughter;
there were too many things I never solved
I walked with this heaviness
with a dream to transform the world for you
but instead, I lost and lost
and left these wounds on your carpet
watered a grass that was already dead
and called it advocacy
The inheritance of loss
is beaded into these gold bangles
the same ones my mother gave me
the same ones I keep for you

I don't sit in these minutes.
Wondering how and why
I fall into a motion, mindlessly
Opening cabinets of half-made
Half-done, half-finished things
Opening and closing
Yesterday and today
Just opening and closing
Until it starts to make sense
Until this loss fills in the cracks and these half-things, this half me,
find a resolution to seal these doors shut

Parallel tables down this neighbourhood street
I can see some of them from distant windows
One is vacated
One is full, people buzzing about
Hot food coming out of the kitchen onto the table
Bubbling, boiling soups, freshly tossed salads
Glasses brimming with new stories
Then, to the right, a person
Sits at their table alone,
One dim light, eating from a bowl
My guess is cereal.
Stories, stories, stories
Troubling questions
Awkward silence
He’s meeting the parents today
So, he fidgets and taps his feet
She’s telling them she got into college
He just got home from his best friend’s funeral
The other house is dark,
They always have dinner at six
But today, the lights are off
Trip? No.
They’re saying goodbye to grandma in the hospital
That couple in the duplex
I think it’s their delivery date
There’s that one house,
Everyone eats at a different time
Mom, daughter, and second daughter rotate washing dishes
but the older one just got married
it looks like they are still settling into the newfound gaps
her brother left today
a house that used to be loud and crowded
now, two empty nesters
they never eat at the table anymore
they put on the TV
with their plates
because the couch is a smaller space to fill
than these dining room tables

I don’t think I could tell you of ease
But I see you across from this sea in between
Shifting in your seat, nursing a dull ache
I know that feeling all too well
But I don’t want to tell you about it
In case I may come across insensitive
Because I’m trying not to shift this center of gravity
We both share in desperation
And tip us over the edge
We didn’t dare to wonder about
But I never learned to swim
And this sea in between
is filling up my lungs
When did it get so hard to breathe?
I call after you, under my shallow breath
I see you for everything  
Hoping you see me too
But this heavy air we drink
Settles in your shadow and mine
It spells out gracefully
That the spaces between us
Are built out of love
And so, we go on
Paving distances
For these descending clouds