I went ring shopping for my girlfriend’s grandma.

Well, it wasn’t for her grandma,
it was for her and I,
and yet I have
her grandma to thank.

Life is so cruel
because I just wanted
her to see us marry and
yet cancer was the reason
I knew I needed to buy a ring.

I thought maybe God would see
us ring shopping and decide that
our love was enough to
scoop her grandma into his hands,
but obviously life isn’t quite that kind.

But the wedding is near
and the cancer is knocking
on the door that I wish would stay
open forever.

Except, if you were to ask me,
the real wedding happened
on the day I asked
my girlfriend’s grandma for
permission to spend the
rest of our lives together.

Tears were shed and hugs ensued
and if that isn’t at the
heart of matrimony
then I don’t know what is.

But that simple question
to my girlfriend’s grandma,
and the even simpler
yes, of course
she answered, left me a
married woman that day.

I see her now
in dragonfly wings,
hear her whisper of approval
and laughter in the silence they create.
There will never be a time
I will see a dragonfly
and not believe she is
stopping by to say hello.

So when I walk down
the aisle, and my fiancée’s
grandma has an empty seat at the altar,

I know the wedding
has already happened,
and that my wife’s grandma
was there to pick out the ring.

At no point did I know where
the night would take me,

That’s how I knew I was exactly
where I was meant to be.

Thinking back on it,
it wasn’t the all nighter
or the 1 am drive through fiasco
that made me remember that day,

Or the light pink lacy bra
we made the one man wear,
or the short time I spent driving a
car— wearing rollerblades— down
the midnight street.

No, surely it wasn’t the
concrete I slept with my
back pressed against or the
4 am alarm so I could catch the sunrise.

To be honest, I’m not actually
sure why I remember that day.
I don’t think any one of those moments
stuck out more than the others.

And 30 years down the line,
chances are I really won’t
remember those events.
But I will never forget how those people made me feel.

My life wasn’t changed that day.
But now I knew one thing more—

Life isn’t changed, but it is defined by
small moments experienced
with big people.

I wish I had a writing process.
If you would have asked me a
month ago, I would have told you
my process is
Write when I feel like it.
So why then, for the past 3 weeks,
have I felt like it, and then every
word feels like it has taken
a surprise vacation from my brain?

I hate writing.
Let me rephrase,
I hate saying I’m a writer,
then having nothing to show for it.
Where have all the words gone?

Even now, as I type this from my
thumbs while walking to a class
in Spain, I feel the weight of
unwritten words in the space
below my diaphragm.
I am in the most beautiful
city in the world and I
can’t get inspired for the life of me—
and here I am writing about writer's block.

How pretentious.

I hate being a writer,
It feels as if as soon as I gave
myself that title, my brain knew it had
to humble me so that I would stop saying
I am a writer,
And start saying
Oh, I just like to write sometimes.

Is it all not just for show?
Do I not just write to tell people that I do?

I’ve lost sight of the meaning
of why I write in the first place.
Let me use this rant
as a way to get my
head on straight and to
grab myself by the ankles
And start at square one.

I used to write about fun things,
like my best friend’s birthday party.
Just for the sole reason that
I had fun and felt loved
And I cared about them
So much that I
Couldn’t help but write a poem.

Do you know how that feels?

To feel so strongly that
The only outlet is to write.
I guess that is where
the idea of my writing process came from.
And the key to getting my words back.

I will chase that feeling,
the overwhelming poetness
feeling until all I can do
Is write, and write once more.

I went to an open mic night in a western town;
A blackboard sign read “Cowboy poetry, open to all.”
I was neither a cowboy or a poet, but figured all included me
so in I went.

40 fans complimented broken AC nicely,
and a woman who has seen 3 times the amount of sunrises as me
handed me a mixed drink
as a handlebar mustache-d man stepped up to the mic.

Some punk crept in the back door.
Buckled boots rose to their knees,
and half a can of spray held their hair in a way
birds would be scared to land there.

Suddenly my mixed drink felt like popcorn and
I could almost see a tumbleweed roll by,
as the Wild West duel tune played in my brain.

As the boots-wearing wrangler took the mic,
speaking about some horse, or something,
I watched as my sinister sister put down their phone to listen,
all 18 earrings jingling as they turned their head towards him.  

As the next poet took the stage I kept my eyes trained on
Ol’ Howdy’s hand, making sure the poem titled
”gender: my nonbinary manifesto” didn’t elicit
any gunslinging fast-ones.

But he just kicked back and listened as eyeliner
delivered a powerful and albeit, relatable poem about
the gifted kid to goth dropout pipeline.

The night ended and I was too nervous to
share my own writing and so I recycled my popcorn bucket
and had a foot out the door as I heard a deep southern voice speak—
maybe my entertainment wasn’t yet finished.

“I have never heard something quite like that.”
I unashamedly tuned into their conversation—
“you have a real gift for writing, young— ”
“Friend.”

”Thank you, I could really feel
how much your horse meant to you.
Secretariat thanks you for sharing”

I left the shop that day,
passed the since rained clean outdoor chalkboard
and wondered why I had expected a showdown.

Poetry brings us together,
cowboy hat and fishnet leggings,
and all who love to write.

Peering through lenses, I see myself
legs swung over cliffside mountain shelf.

She holds her hand and I allow a smile,
She who is me, has deserved love for a while.

Choking on rain and the smile filled moon,
They dance over dewdrops and hearts are cocooned.

This is their fantasy hand crafted world,
Books they have written and princess swords twirled.

Two poets in love, a trope unheard,
Run hips under fingers, darlings’ skin lines are blurred.

I love to watch my life through a secondhand source,
A real life fairytale, running its course.

How lucky am I to feel things
So deeply and fully.







That’s it.
                        That’s the poem.