I haven’t been able to make my bed
But I ate breakfast

I haven’t been able to clean out my car
But I haven’t faltered on taking my dog to hike, play, explore

I haven’t been able to organize the shelf in my room
But I rubbed lavender tallow deep beyond my skin

I have been in this threshold
Between what can wait and what matters

I haven’t been able to even think about looking for another job
But I put out a book of poetry
(And it feels so small an act)

I hold the standard high,
But differently these days.
I am cluttered,
I can’t hold onto many things for too long
But there are things, my dog, rebellion, prayer, that no longer need holding.
I held them so long we merged.
They are marrow, cells, blood.

I haven’t been choosing to do those things,
actually.
I am able - without question I could pick up the pile of clothes in the corner of my room
and fold my socks.
But it just doesn’t matter enough.
There is weight-
Things to cry about,
and I have to, I must, call my mom if I am going to be okay.

So my bed, the pile of clothes, my car, can exist as they are.
There is no harm in mess when it can be cleaned later.
But my body, my dog, my heart, the genocides,
Require me.

So much feels fickle in the face of the grief and love I bear.
The grief
I want to plant.
I want to get my hands ***** in its power.
I want it to know my name.
The love-
Oh the love.
I cannot tell you of its expanse.
I can only bring you into the flood,
Show you the mountain,
Let you feel the sun.