A scream that ripples sheets of memory and.
Stinging like a reminder
deep as my burned finger
I replay and repeat, smoothing darkness
stuffing the present into the space between.
Hoping for wisdom, poise, acceptance, and finding.
Frozen pictures of smiling people in hot springs.
Shining food on white plates.
Cities locked in place until they crumble apart all over centuries and.
Feeling as alone as seagull poop cracking on hot boulders,
taking grief from the sun for lifetimes and then.
Feeling alone and I think lonely too but realizing.
All the times I’ve been with, and still the ache creeps.
Into my fingers and toes and expectations.
Still there, squirming worms of aches and then the indelicate task of cleaning shop. Making new and white again.
The smell of lasagna warming.
The sounds of new music in the little speakers that shudder deep home into my chest,
like running fingers over wooden dressers with eyes closed, trying to remember what I’ve only pretended to forget.
Coming back after a coma.
Remembering that we come and go alone.
Remembering. Standing at a cliff.
Open to miracles.
Feeling the wind navigating my ribs.
Searching but with eyes open.
I used to draw pictures and the girls’ eyes were penciled shut.
It was easier that way.
Parts of me are completely bowed.
In the dark shying from.
How much daylight does it take to turn and face the cardinal directions?
Birds flying from high nests.
And still I cry like it matters.
How to inhabit the pebble and the planet all the same.
A long hanging horizon of creation,
And still I sit full of river stones.
Saying it’s easier that way.