a ceramic
coffee cup,
old percolator,
your wrists.

clink clink —

the stirring
of sugar.

can we
sit on the
concrete
pathway
next to
the garden,
with our
warm
coffee
cups?
i want
to take
photographs
of you
in this
green shirt,
in this
morning
light.

i bring
my blue
childhood
to this
table;
you bring
all of
the pink
hurt that
you have
collected
in jars,
from
trying
to love
over
the years.
we sit here
together
for hours,
summers,
autumns,
winters,
and strive
to make
our
home
less
and
less
purple.

joy,
the book fairs
that brought
new worlds
to the closed box;
the money,
given, to buy
two novels.
joy,
the desk
facing the wall
and diaries
to write in.
joy,
the black pens.
joy,
the playground
with the swings
and evening air
tucking wild hair
behind my ears.
joy,
the slides,
the trees,
the gravel.
joy,
the wet grass
near the ducks
at central park.
joy,
the racks
in the kitchen
that held
the bowls
i knew.
joy,
the proxy teacher
who became
the first adult
to love my
silly poetry.
joy,
the balcony
that opened
for fresh air.
joy,
the silent sky
on the silent
walks home.
joy,
the often
empty roads.
joy,
the wrists
of the caretaker
who oiled my hair.
her uncontained love
as she kissed my cheeks,
cooked my meals,
watched me eat,
changed my sheets,
taught me
— raised me.
joy,
the soft existence
and companionship
of my two sisters.
joy,
the people
who came
and cradled me
and my big life
without hesitation;
comforted me
with their
friendship
and compassion
and tea.
joy,
the loved ones.
joy,
the growing,
the learning,
the loving.
oh such joy,
the mother
in the world
around me.
oh such joy,
the nurture
in everything.

this morning,
i've sat down
and tried to
recall memories.
memories
that i could
write about.
and nothing
significant
comes to
mind.
just
the same
childhood
television,
the feeling
of sand
between
my toes
at that
beach
i went to
a long time
ago.
years of
collecting
every letter
i've got,
then in
a moment
letting it
all go.
not
missing
the things
i thought
were important,
while i was
homeless.
kisses
on terraces.
a resort
we went
to a lot
on school
vacations.
central park.
a korean
restaurant
that i kept
going to
for the big,
floral coffee
mugs.
the consuming
thought of
wanting to
run away.
the happiness jar
full of folded
pieces of paper.
having tea
with a sweet man
after his meditation
in the morning
at my apartment.
having tea
with a warm girl
after her cigarette
in the morning
at my apartment.
a tray of
teacups
on an
airbnb
bed,
and friends
around it.
crying
in the shower.
hurting
my neck
from laughing
so much.
sitting
on the floor.
sitting
at a table
at sunset.
sitting
at a quiet
balcony
at dusk.
sitting
near a
sea
at dawn.
sitting
on the
steps
to a
kitchen
garden.
sitting
at an
empty
restaurant.
sitting,
scared
in silence
after loud
screaming.
sitting,
bored
at a
crowded
event
where
i couldn't
hear
myself.

nothing
significant.

nothing
significant
­comes to mind.

today
we are
opening
the new
coffee.
it's a rainy
morning,
our cat
is fed,
and you
have put
two chairs
out for us
to sit —
our legs
crossed,
with our
hot cups
of coffee.
in the
afternoon
we will go
and bring
some
oranges
home
from
the tree.
our little
nasturtiums
and pink
roses have
bloomed;
some of
them will
live in the
vase on
the table.
the mosquitoes
were driving
us crazy
last night.
i think
we should
get more
repellents.
you're making
a stew for
lunch today,
and i will
make
something
sweet
with the
frozen
blueberries
from last
winter.
the cups
are almost
empty. but
we will
sit here
a little
longer
watching
the cat nap,
the drizzle
fill up the
flowerpots,
clementines
drop from
our tree.

i wanted to
tell you
everything.
i wanted to
write to you
about my
heart; its
breaking,
hold you
and talk
about
trauma
and cry
and sink
and shrink
and expand.
grieve.
but
for now
here's
something:
when i
wasn't
looking,
the day
went by
beautifully,
today.
the skies
turned pink
in the evening,
as it does.
the air
became
cool
and
quiet.
we made
eggs and
vegetables.
i laughed
many times,
and there
was music.