There are days when I write
that my thoughts are black and sticky
tar on the windshield on a January
It drips down my pen or gunks up my keyboard
and I sob at the mess that's slowing my down
always slowing me down

There are days when I write
and my thoughts are ghosts
they just want to lay down, but the shadows make them jump
possibilities alien or needed frighten them
and their only artwork
is a plea for help

There are days when I write
and my thoughts are spiders
and I work feverishly
my paintings and poems smeared by eight long legs
angry, violent, (secretly scared)

Those are what people like.

There are days when I write
and there is absolutely nothing wrong.
what a lovely morning...
*I think I'll write a poem

Two winters ago I would chain-smoke spirits on my way to work in the early mornings;
windows down, blueish fingertips,
driving through the gunks into the sunrise, Leonard Cohen on repeat—
            I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
I would drive home much the same way, sometimes going the long way
to catch the sunset;
my sunless days, nestled between 4 stiff walls
The world was grey;
            grey pavement
            grey skies
            grey walls
            grey smoke
It must be this way forever, I thought.
that February was the coldest month I remember being alive—

This year the windows are up, the sun is bright, I keep my car
warm.
In the passenger seat;
a bag of sweet sesame rice crackers, an apple, lime seltzer, a little jacket, my journal, tiny socks—
I reach my hand in the backseat
when Winona cries,
let her wrap her tiny fingers
around my thumb, "I'm here,
sweet girl"
I pull into a park on
the river— we get out
            watch the trees
            sway, the breeze
paints our faces rose, we
orient ourselves in this
big, unfamiliar
world. she reaches her hand
out as if to grab the falling leaves, a
wonderous look on her soft face—
she smiles,
she touches my face,
just months old and she knows
            my voice
she knows
            my safety—
for a moment,
            nothing else exists,
            the world doesn't know
            we're here—
for a moment, it's just us,
            like it was in that hospital room
            not too long ago
for a moment, there is
            peace—

I wonder if I'll remember this
in 60 years,
when both our hands
will have wrinkled, mine more
than hers; when crows' feet
ordain our eyes;
when I've lived my life, and she's
well into hers. I know
she won't remember,
I hope I do—