When I have bad days,
it’s written all over
the wrinkles in my forehead
the folds around my frowns
all reading in glossy black ink:
“desperate to be dead very soon”
and I try not to think about
the way deer get caught in head lights
with dead expressions
a bulbous streak of white
like a firefly hitting a bull’s eye
like lightening striking God into hearts
and their soft brown irises.

When good days arise out of the comfort of the dust
I try to think of the way tall wheat
hovers over fields like awkward pearlescent angels
or fairy lights
and I love that alignment of the two universes
like it was the birth of the first thing that ever mattered to me
and the cobalt butterflies meet me in the middle,
the center of my stomach,
and I open my hands
and make a little space for you.