I used to build words
like a carpenter—
lines hammered out
plank by plank
word for word,
like bridges
spanning waters
for anyone
eager to cross.

And now
I write to meet the page
like aching skin,
like quiet water
hesitant to ripple—
careful to bear a mark.

All the words
I’ve sent off—
paper boats,
adrift.

I let them all go,
travelers,
and bridges alike,
let them sink or rise—
and let the tide
bring the words
home.

I dreamed my way here
I’ve had my cringe moments
I feel pressure, I lose perspective
I’ve wholeheartedly failed
I misspeak, underthink, overreact
I try to do the right thing
the right thing isn’t always clear
I’ve tried to hold on
I’ve let go with grace
I’ve charged ahead
I’ve stepped aside
I self-sabotage, then try to do better
I’ve self-consciously retreated
I’ve stood up for others
I’ve backed down and apologized
I’ve rinsed and repeated
I’m a chameleon, but I’ve never been perfect
I’ve under-reacted to challenges
I’ve overreacted to the ordinary
I devalue likeability
I indulge the language of play
I share my human experience
I don’t know what else to say.

I sat adjacent
a roaring fire
rising into the night

I spoke incantations
and chanted wild
incongruously
without consternation

Met her in a place
Where no one wants to be.
People find it warm for winter.
Leave again in spring.
Said she took her meds.
Her family was important.
Paul McCartney wed her cousin.
The pretty was falling from her features.
The care had long gone.
Was an Eastman.
So much said on film.
Needed a cigarette
Lost from her family.
Tell them where she is.
Doing better now.
Said she always took her meds.