My parents have been together for just shy of twenty-five years—just shy of how long I've been alive. A favorite photo of mine is their wedding party.  My dad is stepping forward, smiling, and instructing a pause. I am cradled in the next photo.

They're still together in a relationship that's not at all like storybook love, but they downright could not function without the other. Where one goes, the other annoyedly follows. My mom puts out the fires and my dad takes out the trash.

Being the ******* child that tied them together is funny. As soon as I learned how it is that they love, I realized just how much they love me. But to watch them fight is so funny. Being half of each of them is so funny. To see and feel solutions and to internally diffuse their clamor before explaining how or why is so funny a feeling. I think they are surprised when I know things about them that they don't realize or share. After twenty-five years I am surprised that there are things that they don't know about each other or themselves. They bred it, and it's me. Then again, I am surprised each time I learn a thing about myself I did not know. But it's dad's birthday so stop being difficult and let's go to Red Lobster.

I am so impatient
but I practice
while awaiting
your 'I love you'.

I wait
and wait
and wait
but, here, today,
there's not one for me.

Your words are all but hollow,
almost like another name—
you tell me,
'I'll be here tomorrow'
and it almost feels the same.

I daydream briefly
and I think about
the softened, muted features
of a female, screaming silently
and tearing at her shoulder blades.
(who is she, who could she be)

the softened, muted features
of an abandoned cardinal mother,
screeching at the loss of scarlet lover.
(where is he, or could he be)

the softened, muted features
of myself alone and sleeping,
finger tucked inside a book
I haven't read about self-love
that I just like to tuck my fingers in.
(how am I, how could I be)

*I don't know why
I want to tell you
but I do,
I really do.
I think my heart
is in an okay place
and think that
yours is too.

I finally washed my bed sheets.

But on Mondays,
I still water that ******* orchid.

That beautiful blue *******
blooms a new hue every week.

And every week, I am forced to remember
(how could I forget)
how I watered and waited
for a new you to bloom—

not one more beautiful,
not one more suave,
or more handsome, or clever—

but the one you assured me was ripening, quiet
like the beautiful ******* before me.
The one that would love me,
despite being lifeless
for giving you all that supports me.



I thought about throwing it out

but every week,
the orchid keeps its promise.

Am I myself deluded?
No—I am myself, diluted.
Filtered,
faded
to occlusion
and remade
of dissolution
here, the farthest
in the future
I'd imagined
myself
being—

and I still want to love you
but I want to love me better.

for myself
the Yuba's pulse
is that of the scent of coffee
freshly brewed
lightly roasted
early in the morning
in the middle of winter

comfort in the heartbeat
of the community

soon I will drift off
like wood
strong
not seeking
simply floating in the current
rushing through the waves
becoming one with what surrounds me
always floating
nothing will drowned me

Colorado isn't so far away
that my love won't reach those who stay
I'm afraid that I can no longer steep
I'm fresh hot tea, and biscuits!
Ready to eat!

I'm taking a bite of life
to nourish my soul
this valley of grass
no longer my (w)hole!
no longer another day
wishing to move on
it's time to let go
to see a new dawn!

the horizon so bright!
the road awaits my travels
and I await my fate

another day for another friend
no such hurt that love won't mend
I find myself better when I am with myself
so here I go into the world
to feel a new river
smell a new smell
see a sight unknown without fright
no tightening in my stomach
fluttering at best

wings never at rest
sprouting from my back
fueled by my chest
the beating inside
reverberates externally
although my physical being moves
my love for this place, these people
and the land, my love will stand

eternally.

I first fell
in love
on my head
with a boy who
was not
ready yet
(That's my type.)
and I left,
and I left
words unsaid
and I reddened
the face
of the boy
in my bed
for a boy who
was greedy,
could tell I
was needy,
could help stop
the bleed, but
was not
ready yet.
next was the boy
that I won
(No one won.)
he's the boy
who said "likewise"
and smiled
like the sun.
like a vision,
my dreams,
beautiful
make-believe,
so it was
and would be
about every
six weeks.
then, oh,
was the guy
who would hold me
real late
while we watched
pbs
and we tried
not to date
but he loved me,
we did,
and he made
me feel pretty
on my period
(he would move
and get married.
we’re happy
for him.)
in between
was the guy
who lived
inside my brain;
we drove ourselves
mad
and each other
insane.
I don't know
where his
band's playing
or how to spell
his kid's name
(Yes I do.
And he's cute.
I don't know
what I'm saying.)
next and last
but not least
was a boy
I would meet,
young and blonde
and could sing
and so
in love with me.
he wrote songs,
melodies,
composed small
symphonies—
but what I thought
of him
he did not think
of me.

it's been lovely
but lonely
when those
who would hold me
have told me
they loved me
but not
really known me.