You're still on my mind
the way you taste, and the way  
you make me feel.  
The world moves fast,  
and soon, the time will be here again.  
Instead of a turkey,  
you've carved pieces of my heart  
and reminded me of all the things I've forgotten.  
The aches and pains that have taken  
over the empty spaces between  
the hands on the clock
work, bills,  
pieces of my most intimate self  
I've traded to sustain a living.  

You've carved these pieces of my heart,  
as savory as they can be,  
and fed them to me,  
showing me that the world isn't  
that miserable
regardless of the fake smiles in a  
fast-moving world.  
My favorite time of the year comes  
quicker, followed by my favorite  
season.  
Thank you for showing up,  
and allowing us to feast on the parts  
of ourselves we always seem to forget.  
Next year, this time will come around  
faster.  
Until then, I'll savor the way you taste  
and how good it feels to be around you

We're eating the meat

of nameless animals still --


unknown to Noah.

I bought a rabbit from a feed store
He was raised for meat
But I brought him home
And raised him for me
Not to eat but to keep

Part of me thinks that's just as cruel
Poor unwanted, little thing
Just happy to live in my house
He doesn't have the ability to see
How unnatural our friendship is

I didn't save him
But I didn't eat him
So he just exists without purpose
Kind of like me
I think I was also raised for meat

I hate how I don't eat breakfast in the morning
Now, I'm stuck here with my stomach grumbling
My throat hurting
With every breath I take
My stomach's life is at stake

All I can ask is... Can I please eat my snacks in your class? 🥺

Field of overnight oats
so full of hippy goodness
I might live forever.

I watch,
And I pull different pieces
Of her out the bowl.
Somewhat tangled and a bit messy.
I twist her all up even more,
And put her in my mouth.
The steam rising fresh from her.
My mouth catches her,
All of her.
Hot, slightly salty.
I love the way she makes me feel.
Eventually, her ways will become mine.
She isn't just some mess in a bowl.
And although I am hungry,
The pieces of her that I drag to my mouth. Are moderate.
I've never tasted anything like this
Before.
She isn't just a quick bite
Of temporary need.
My tongue, my gut,
My soul loves this tangled goodness.
She is my safe space

Silent days, delicate rains,
clip clopping like marching horse,
on thin, steel roofs, and nylon umbrellas.

Drenched, sweating foreheads in summer climates,
consistent, cool winds like drooling  ice,
drying sopping skin, a rough cloth to an oily pan.

Starved road trip bellies, after intermittent rests and games of eye-spy,
salivating at laminated menus, and passerby plates,
pre-meal hot fries, fulling deep guts with salty chips and fizzing raspberry.

Waking hours before blaring alarms,
knocking parents, a whistling kettle, and the popping toaster;
an hour to lay restless head into the deep world of snug pillows and warm blankets;
as if your whole universe is one big cushion.

Finishing a chapter and curling rough page with soft finger,
placing floral bookmark into the straight crease,
placing it back into its spot on the shelf or bedside table.

Dawn coffee.
Friday afternoon.
Saturday morning.
Kind encounters.
Meeting deadlines.
A finished poem.

Pass me the hot Cheetos
while we Netflix and chill

Order the pizza
while I get a refill

I'll choose the movie
And you pay the bill.