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Kaitlin Jan 16
Garbage bags
Tater tots
Black beans
Milk

This is a grocery list
not a poem.
But my brain is out of poems,
and the store is out of milk,
so maybe it is both.
Its just a grocery list.
Kaitlin Sep 2020
On nothing day
I talk to myself
And know myself
Better than I will tomorrow
Better tonight
Amongst a lifetime of clutter
Between childhood diaries
And what could be a clover field, in a dream,
where everything was the same but better
Like it is when I write it down
On soft paper, cream with a pressed flower
Folded in the seam.
Of course, I have never written on this soft paper,
And tonight, on nothing day,
I type with tired, uneasy fingers
On a screen too bright for midnight eyes.
And yet in all the nastiness and stickiness
The imperfections, oddities
The house spider webs,
Crooked paintings,
******* ants, crawling up my legs
Here, in nothing day,
I somehow know myself better
Than I will tomorrow.
Yesterday's reality is just tomorrow's fantasy, isn't it?
Kaitlin Sep 2020
The rice cooker broke
because I turned it on
with no rice inside to cook
And its empty clay
couldn't take the heat all alone
So it just cracked, all spiderweb
Almost pretty.  Useless.
And I hated myself for that.
I felt pretty useless for that.

What's funny,
I think it's funny,
I want to think it's funny,
is that it's been years
but I remember, and I still,
and I am still pretty useless for that.

Once Upon A Time
Pressure cooking was exciting
It was Hot,
It was Tense,
Leading tone to tonic
Tugging me towards...

But I'm bored with that now.
I'm bored of stress.
      (but I'm stressed when I'm bored.)

I'll just go to sleep.

And in the morning

I'll remember to add rice.
Kaitlin Jun 2020
I am reminded
by my cracked lips,
And the way my mouth
tastes like mouth,
How hot it is in here.
That,
left to my own devices,
I might just burn myself up.

I am reminded
by dragon breaths
Blowing softly
on my forehead
How warm you are out there
That,
left to my own devices,
I could bake myself into all that glow.

And never know
Why I'm still so cold.
Kaitlin Jun 2020
Waterlilies.
And once,
Rue and columbine
(thoughts and remembrance)

Pretty flowers,
From me
(of me)

"Pretty Ophelia"
floating with flowers.
Pretty still,
Nothing more.
Was I never anything more?
She deserved so much better.
Kaitlin Jun 2020
In suburbia,
a blue house with purple shudders;
a sloped hill, more wildflower than grass;
a peach tree, perennial, too old to fruit;
and robins, Miss Carolina robins, catching worms;
all told, making a home.

And a girl with wildflower hair
that reaches down past her waist,
that catches sticks like Miss robin's worms,
that's ends remember times she's forgotten,
that's dead and dry by her shoulders.

And the girl, she's catching caterpillars,
putting them in jars,
plastic wrapping up their sky,
poking stars with table forks,
making them a home.

Until they crack from wooly cacoons
when they're made into something new:
a kitchen moth, drawn to the light,
and so what about you, little girl?
What about you?
Kaitlin Jun 2020
In this moment,
All swamp air and sunlight spotlight,
Sat atop an old oak log,
I wonder
Who listened
To the swansong sinking melodies
caught between opulence and open water.
Who will listen
To our deep-space golden records
lost between planet and pale blue dot.
Who is listening
To my hushed hums on an old oak log
that once fell and may have made a sound.

I wonder.

And I listen.
Is anybody listening?
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