I once hung clothes
from a line, canned
strawberries, and wished
for paved streets.

Now, I long for gravel
dusted sheets blowing in the wind
beside strawberry fields
concrete can’t reach.

He was stone,
hard edges,
and brittle words.

I walked among
the gravel until
I had enough
calluses to leave.

They come with their offhand,
stale yesterday words
that once felt like a knife.

I grew past the bleeding.

Now they are barbs
cutting themselves for
attention.

I wonder if my legacy
will merely be a faint light
in the peripheral vision
of a passer’s eye or a shadow figure
of a memory, the name on the tip
of a tongue one can’t seem to form.

No matter how many letters I write
to my ten-year-old self she doesn’t
seem to trust she will ever be first in line
because she’s been taught, she’s
supposed to be last.

I am beginning to understand
why I’ve always been in love with dandelions.
They are petaled, defiant sunlight
thriving where nothing else can.

Half asleep,
barely able
to feel
the coffee cup
in my hands,
I wander morning
searching for
a destination
my calendar
has not yet mapped.

I made a thing from weeds and bark
and called the thing I made--a heart.
I wrapped it 'round with wire and twine
and crossed it, kept it--called it mine.

Love my heart, love it much
despite the rot and wasps and such
and when you're done--I'll love you back
to see what nightmares come from that.

Hearing from you is like being operated on
by a blind doctor
trained in church
by the deaf dead.

swallow builds its nest
from objects it can gather
steal lipstick, why pay?