sentimentalist | feminist | poet
How brief, yet how full that first encounter
between you in your prime and me in my
secondhand life. Hello, treasure hunter,
would you like to dig through this box of mine?
You gave new perspective on retro plans,
games, and puzzles, walking me back ten years —
to the foothills of adulthood, Old Man
in the rearview, set to play pioneers.
Waiting on a slow line at dinner hour,
air hunger befalls me, symptomatic
of nothing less than a moral panic.
Life’s too short for gas station flowers
and boxed wine. But: How to be sober
in a winter darkened by pandemic?
Strain the breath before it becomes tannic
and dry, lest it drive me to another
On looking over my harvest field,
To see what crop my life might yield,
I was amazed to find its state,
For I had left it to its fate.
After seeing red almost all year,
Night’s darkness during day appeared,
And so a profit came to me,
There was fruit where fruit should be.
All of this time spent
making and remaking home
in my latest self-image,
into bouquets of dried memories
laid out alive before me;
turning down the bed,
like an envelope full of flowers,
to be romantic
to steep in bath water
to float in a cupped hand
to read into
to press in a book and forget
to remember today more than other days
to remember what I like to do
to remember who I like to give rose petals to
Read More