“What I Carry”

Some days the loss is heavy,
like stones in my chest.
Other days it’s light,
like sunlight through leaves.
Both are true. Both stay with me.
And somehow, so do I.

tulip blaze of red—
his hand still in the petals,
train whistle fading

Moonlight folded,  
a mouth purses shut.  
    Ears rise,  
                corn listens.  
The scarecrow whispers—  
dreams scatter like chaff.

I sit back,
a shadow at the table,
gathering the stillness
as if it were mine—

“Unspoken Units”

You measured me
in teaspoons of time—
a stir, a pause,
a dissolve.

I answered in grams of silence,
packed tight
like sugar in a spoon,
but never sweet.

We never spilled, but the table held
our residue.

I fold the silence into paper,
address it to your absence,
and let the ink wander
where my voice could not.

Every word is a bridge half‑
built across distance,
collapsing into the river
before you ever arrive.





.

Somewhere between the wave’s rise  
and its folding back into itself,   
I felt the salt change weight in my hands.

The water no longer blurred the edges —  threads began to show through the foam, knots glinting like shells in the shallows.

I was still wet with the reading,  
but already leaning toward the loom,   ready to watch the weaving happen.



.

Between wave and return  
       the salt grew heavier in my hands.

Foam thinned to threads,  
       knots glinting in the shallows.

Still wet with the reading,  
       I leaned toward the loom.

the scrolls stare back like a shopfront window
where the mannequins wear my metaphors,
   price tags swinging from their wrists.

           You didn't shake their wrists,

           but I saw it nonetheless—
      tags fluttering away like pale,
    misunderstood butterflies.




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