this is what we made.
Where I come from there are no
ifs.
There is the ground and the sky
our feet and our hands.
heart.
Credit: Brennan Massicotte
She’s calmer now. The winter Sun is setting.
The edges of her voice have dulled
but
her eyes are still swift, snowy blue
blossomed into summer skies.
She is august now. Slow,
heavy as the air. Mellow,
the Moon easing in her hammock.
The Disappearing Woman
When I read trainwreck debates without getting involved, I’m over here like:
Laundry
Credit: Arto Isotalo
It was the crispness of the sweater that made me stop. Folded firmly, it was starched with the wind and the sun of the country it was dried in. Australia. I pushed it up to my face and breathed in deeply. Just the stale scent of the plane remained, not the detergent she used to wash it. But it was enough, it was enough. I placed it over my face and let my head drop back as the memories of the trip washed up through my senses.
Inhale. Long flights and airport reunions. Exhale. Her bedroom in that little apartment, his dirty dungarees and white ponytail past the door. The curtain-sifted light in her room and the darkness sitting, brooding in the corners. Inhale. The wind, the constant wind around the house, through the windows, playing tag with the screen door. Exhale. Arguments. Speed-walking through pale, yellow brick streets under a muggy grey sky. And quiet conversations in the dusk; thoughts waiting on pillows.
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Needlepoint
She reached across and stuck the needle in
didn’t feel around for the vein
didn’t stop
to see
if it hurt.
The plunger went down, Continue reading
Red Fire Dark 