do not be afraid
of what is left behind

do not be afraid
of being left behind

accept the circles
within and without

accept that the seasons
were are and will be

accept that we
were are and will be

the something
the nothing

ever graceful
ever beautiful

Kentucky strawberry moon, 17th year cicada
Puya raimondii blooming twice
The Dead Sea Scrolls fanned out on the table
Midday, a mouthful of star anise and cardamom
The Lord’s Prayer in the hallway, lingering in the heavy sunlight, Jack-a-dandies shifting gently
across the ceiling—

I am lost in this barley malt reverie, ****** in vanilla. Deep brown and tenderhearted
Plaited with marigolds
Preserved in marmalade
I reach,
I reach



I reach.

.

mom tells me that the reason dad
doesn’t tell me he loves me as often
Is because I don’t need it as much
as zak

.

I still wonder, all these years later,
if I am bound to the same rules, the
same divine dream my mother had all
those years ago—
Will I  also be tied into a loveless marriage?
A business proposition ? A contract
in shreds, lining the walls
another reverie I’ve shifted into
the floor planks swollen with stale bath water
a decrepit house falling apart
Around me, asleep in
a place where the lights don’t come on


mom tells me

It’s because I  don’t need it as much

.

I take the long way home after Lydia’s wedding
down 67 into the cemetery off the highway
I stop at your grave where I’m surprised to find
you finally have a headstone—
They’ve moved all of the porcelain angel figurines into a heap, I gingerly peel them out of
the weeds and find the grass yellowing beneath their tiny wings

Lydia got married today, she looked beautiful. Your mom—you know her, she said you were here. a beat, thunder, like carillon bells, rumbles in the south. The bottom of an incus cloud, thick and flinty, rolls over the Wet Mountains
I looked beautiful too
The sprinklers turn on across the service walk,
long jets of white water


I’m not angry, Thomas. It’s okay.


I love you.


.

Back in the summer of ‘99 when
My mom and adoptive father got married
I remember the cream white carpet of the pastors house and the table with a gaudy white cake, my mother’s hair in black ringlets around her face and the white t-strap dress shoes, scalloped around the edges.
I remember the staunch silence of my
soon-to-be-brothers probably wondering why he didn’t stick with their respective moms but being altogether curious anyway, of them looking on with their sad blue eyes.

Years later when they’d tell the story of how they met, I’d romanticize this divine encounter only to
realize in my early 20’s that it was more of a business arrangement, really. And in 2018 when my late boyfriend Thomas asked during a boots and bling gala why your parents don’t touch or dance with one another I defensively respond that they don’t have to do that to love one other but

That was all wrong, really.

In another life;

There is rest to be had beneath the ajisai
Amidst the misty cliffs of takachiho
Asleep in the river, barefoot in the tides
posting camp against Verona Rupes
in nothing but linens and marble berry dust

I know this place, I’ve always known this place
I  dreamt about it once in my youth
wandered there in a briny fantasy
wrapped in ribbon ****, presented
within the sun glitter

I know this place.

I’ve been here.




I’ve been here.

.

can you save him?

Can you save him?

A few short weeks before he’d
tattooed Isaiah 40:31 on the
back of his tricep

I  missed all the signs—
his little sister is getting married in a week.

It’s been five years and
It’s been five years and—

It’s been five years


And.