the drive was
one hour
& ten minutes
not including traffic
& accidents along the way

the drive
went through a giant hill,
larger than
a hundred houses
stacked on top of one another

the freeway
lined the jungle
like a strip of lace
on a trim of velvet
only it wasn’t as lacy,
just as pretty as that

& the jungle
looked beautiful
and really took
my breath away:

all the green
and all the trees
lazily looping
about the
whole thing

emerging and then
we were creeping
toward the shore
which was a straight
jagged cut
to the ocean
like where the hairline
& my mother’s forehead
meet

and we cruised
right along the water
just a little
slow at first,
because my mom
is horrible with driving
anything not an suv

and i watched
the great blue
turn to green
against the
great brown
of the rocks
and the terracotta houses

sat right on
the shore
like children
too scared to
go in but like
dipping their
toes

“they’re all
in risk of
a tsunami hazard”,
my mom said
and i simply thought
that maybe they
chose it
for that reason
because the risk
offers a reward
so let them exist

that being said
— i’ve only ever known
land
but i was on the edge
& i wanted
nothing more
than to
leap in.

Through the fence, we slipped,
scratched and torn,
but the world behind us
was nothing—
this was ours.

Rubber giants piled high,
a kingdom built from wreckage,
the smell of earth and metal
mixing with the air we claimed.
We whispered our plans,
wild as the grasshoppers we caught—
sting and laughter tangled together
as we spun tales of escape.

The owner’s anger didn’t faze us,
her shouts just wind
against the roar of our hearts.
We built our thrones
in crooked trees,
a couch our crown,
leaning like a dream too big to stand.
The go kart didn’t run,
but we rode it anyway,
down the hill that should’ve swallowed us whole,
laughing at danger,
at the world that couldn’t keep up.

Bruised and broken,
we held each other,
fighting wars we couldn’t win
except here,
in the tire club.
In this space,
we were never less than fierce,
our bond woven
with the secrets we kept
and the mischief we shared.
A sacred place—
where the world outside couldn’t touch us,
where we were fireproof,
surviving everything
but the burn of our own laughter.

Tiny people made of candy
Realms where there is never drought
I can live in worlds so dandy
It’s getting closer, let me out
Angels, art, and magic beasts
Mer-people swimming in the kelp
Elves, enchantment, pink faeries
It’s getting closer, please come help
I sleep on a bed as soft as cake
The knight which has their sword unsheathed
Lakes are made of chocolate shake
It’s getting closer, I can’t breathe

I come to you again.
Always do.
And sure as eggs,
You’re always here,
Right where I left you.

I bring you the mundanities that weave me together;
I hope they’re beautiful in their ordinariness.

Pointillist.

You know that painting,
The one of the people in the park?
Like that, my mundanities.
Like if I step back one day,
My moments will be arranged into a perfect pattern of great and universal significance.

Having a daughter.
Tasting an orange.
Holding.
Being held.

Writing a little heart song when I should be asleep
The words of my whims dotting the landscape
While the dog smiles and snores at the foot of the bed.

Oh, look, I’ll say.

I see it now.

i know that, at some point, i’m going to be inside a house by the sea. the waves will crash and engulf my ankles as i stare out into the endlessness of the water with a notebook and pen in my hand. i’ll write poetry in the sand and wash the past out of my hair with sea foam shampoo. i’ll toss my phone into the water and never drunk-dial a past lover again. my friends will never hear my voice again, but they’ll get dozens of handwritten letters.
or i’ll be thirty-three and dancing around a clean kitchen with messy hands and bare feet. i’ll be covered in flour and chocolate and when i glance at the clock, it’ll be one p.m. for ten hours. too early to pick the kids up from school, too late to take a nap. perfect time to bake some cookies, or some brownies, or some muffins. i’ll have the windows open and i won’t care if the neighbors see me with my tangled hair and bare face.
or maybe i’ll be tucked away in a cabin in the Rockies. i’ll keep my hands uncovered just to feel the bite of the cold, but i’ll wrap up my warmth in every other way. i’ll dig thoroughly through the snow and hide my prized treasures under frozen mounds, never to be seen again. i’ll watch the playful foxes from my window and giggle like a child when they jump face-first into the wintery blanket surrounding them. i’ll pretend i’m a clever mouse- too smart for foxes- and i’ll hide in my burrow with my cup of hot tea and my obnoxiously fuzzy socks.
i’ll be blameless, confident in my happiness, and ready for each day. i’ll be the hanging painting in the back of the museum- my beauty only beheld by those who are eager to look for it. and i’ll be so lovely.
God has made me prophetic in very small ways

Rain is fodder
food for hungry puddles
when the sun is out
they waste away to nothing

His crown sat bent -
    and it looked quite odd
          on the shady side
          of his sparse baldhead

His ego reigned
     while his daughter sweet
          could not make the move
          to get past her dread

His aproned slave
     dared not make a sound
          to defy the rules
          'til he made her dead

His cranium
     suffered sudden blows
          when an illness struck
          with the news ahead

He spat in barks
     telling all who came
          they should breathe their last
          and he died instead