They say, the dying are greeted, by their mothers
She comes for them at the end
Her love reaching further than bookends
Loving before, when you’re but an idea
A single cluster of cells,
Pregnantly waiting,
For birth

You came into the world quickly,
Precariously, the way you moved in life
Your pace blazing—light speed  
A glow that burned from the beginning

You were likely, the first person I ever held,
Me being too little to hold onto anything much bigger
But of course I adored you right away,
Right from when I first held you,
You made more than a daughter

You left the world quickly too,
during the month the sun burns the hottest,
August sweeping you into the air.
So I wonder, who came for you?

What I like to imagine,
and most desperately hope,
Is that you were greeted by a softness
A loving net cast by our grandmothers
Rocking you slowly
Pulling you back into our linage

On the phone we’d walk and talk in circles
Repeated conversations
Patterns on my rug worn from our talking
You taught me a life lived right will circle

Memories working out of order  
psychic dream senses in waking life,
stitching back together to make a web,  
Somethings have more than one context
But the synchronicity will only comes to those in rhythm

To seek out the motion, careful attention must be maintained:
A book will come back twice if it’s supposed to
One mention of it, you might let it slip your mind,
But then will come a coincidence so strong,
you’ll know it was supposed to be read

Without the dedication to trust a great doubt sets in,
the web so carefully spun begins unspooling
tangling into a knot wound so tight
It will leave in it's place a black hole
this is where I titer
between the point of falling in,
or dangling along the lines of the knot
trying to detangle whats left of the web we created
I am dancing around in different directions
hoping we’ll pass again in sync

Today we noticed a dripping in the library.

We covered up the shelves with a plastic covering but drops from the ceiling hit the tile, splashing over the ground level books.
We did our best to carry those ones away.
But there we were: 2 college students, hopeless in the face of a plumbing disaster;
As the art history books soaked on the shelves

you caught me mid-sip
with a smile and a wave.
As the corners of my mouths rose,
a dribble of coffee escaped.

I brought my sleeve to my lips
thinking no one had seen
but looked over and there was
another, smirking at me

You said it felt like someone stabbed your throat with a knife.
Your tongue was the knife that stabbed mine.

This one’s for the grass eaters:
the ones who teeter on the edge of
reality. For the ones who are hyper-
aware of their consciousness. It’s for
the ones who jump on the creaky wooden
floor to witness the annoyance of those
around them. It’s for the smile you let go after
someone catches you trying to ignore
them. It’s for the Ibuprofen that tears the lining of my
esophagus. It’s for rushing to get to church
so God knows you aren’t late. It’s for the baby
cactus that you are in denial of over-watering---
It’s for that handful of grass I just want to
throw in my mouth.

Spiders spin in my sleep
webs wrapping wishes
into secure spheres.
I'll throw them across time.
Maybe mayhem
can carry cravings
far from fantasy.