i am more tender

than the medium can handle

i am tired of tapping, tired

of being tapped

i buckle under

another weightless morning

where everything glows, everything

opposite sunrise

It was the sap, glittering and amber, that lured him in, or so the story goes. An oozing slippery elm caught the eye of a boy on his way to Elsewhere. Coaxed him into going Nowhere.

Once upon the flutter of a dragonfly wing, Feronia measured her days in drops of honeyrain.

I want to talk about how nothing disappears. No, not even them. No, not even you, when you’ve lost yourself.

soft to the touch

the earth, roughed with

impressions of us

two feet on its surface

or sitting, or holding

we touch the skin

Last night, my voice soared through that microphone and that room that The Stones used in the 70s (but I don’t think anything made the record). All the day before, I practiced singing notes higher than I’d sang in a long time, attempting to embody the soft sadness of lost friendship and the quiet ease of choosing yourself. Even in the moral support of a warm shower, I barely squeaked them out.

i do not know what to call the god i pray to—

only that the names i’ve given them have made them too small—

It’s the shadow on the wall

the sun not on her face

but the back is warm

it has been

fastball

bat snap

road-runner

whiplash

“The greatest sources of our suffering are the lies we tell ourselves.”

— Elvin Semrad, as quoted by Dr. van der Kolk in "The Body Keeps the Score"

once, i was not healing

i was healer

i was toddler

i was laughter

sometimes i turn my face towards the sun

close my eyes

feeling its daunting heat on my skin,

i melt into the awareness of my existence

“Maybe there’s nothing the matter with the matter, and it’s the gravity we don’t understand. ”

_{— Neil deGrasse Tyson, Astrophysics for People in a Hurry}

-i-

i know what it’s like to hold on

like at six—when you clenched a fist

full of rocks from the playground

wrapping your sweaty fingers around

fool's gold

i have triangles for teeth

they stick out from the side

and maybe two times

out of ten

this feels like a gift

of imperfection

i don’t mean you’ve got to lean on yourself

i mean you’ve got to lean into yourself

i mean: lean your back on the wall that you built

i don’t mean turn your back on it

our friendship is a memory

a rug pulled out from under me

a light brown rectangle

on a dark wooden floor

unprotected and exposed

the moon walked me home

stole glances

between branches of trees

peeked

around sides of buildings

kept looking at me like—

everyone’s talkin’ a big game

i’m lookin’ for patterns from a

bird’s eye view

big words, no news

free throws, no hoop

smells like summer rain

like heat rising after the storm

like thick air and messy hair

like unexpected downpour