Happy Holidays: nothing’s changed

And these are the days I need to scream; the sound, a miscarriage at the top of my throat. So I swallow the rotten, add to the echoes in my stomach. I am bloated. I am bleeding to death from inside out. I drink blood thinners to speed up the process. Such a long process,

Anyway, Always

Thinking about it now, I’m not the least bit sorry for the hateful shit I’d said to you eleventy years ago, when I was a kid and you fucking knew better. I rescind my apologies. Not that my sorries ever meant a good goddamn to you, anyway— they were ever only as true as your

For My Truest of Loves

The day was grey-blue, echo of your eyes; sky filled up with promise of rain, and we waited for beloved petrichor. Lemon yellow and speckled black, a noble friend clasped your flaxen strands and flexed its wings. What dreams did she bring, my darling? Do you know how often I dream of the daylight that

And Painted the Floor

In the kitchen my mother was dead with no religion; she’d bumped her head and painted the floor.   Dead head red linoleum   Mother were your eyes closed or open? Only the cat knows as well as policemen.   Bloated bag of bones drained and taking space in chest of drawers… you don’t belong

Fibromyalgia: You Don’t Own Me

Despite the pain I live with every day, I often do forget that I’m not twenty anymore–until I hand down to my girl some vintage band tees too small for me now. Goodbye Fleetwood Mac tank top, and Rolling Stones long sleeved t-shirt. See you around, Abbey Road with the small hole in the armpit.

Feeling Some Type of Way

At 3:33 pm, on the third day of October, it is 82 degrees where I live in Michigan. The house is cool inside, too cool, so I’ve opened a window for balance–just one. The sun is a golden god today, and the trees are waving happy branches in the breeze–lots of them have managed to

Some Words for My Girl

If you’d let me, I’d count your freckles—each kiss print from the sun—I’d connect the dots of constellations tattooed on your alabaster skin—a magic map to be deciphered by the moonlight. You are the cosmos in human form—all-encompassing and beautiful beyond description. When I’m with you, I am energized; positivity radiates from your being, and

Mother’s Spinning Wheel

Mother, I wore your depression– salty wet wool your spinning wheel never tired and when I looked in the mirror, I only saw you        

You’re a Bitch, and I love You

All my life, mother, I’ve loved you above myself even when you’ve loved yourself more than you’ve loved me in return. I now know you’ve hated yourself for making me abandon myself in hopes you’d love me in return. You’re sick, my mother; you’re aware. But I am strong, and you are proud. You don’t

If Memories Were Fireflies

Girl-child, sun freckled, and blonde you grew smaller year by year my lap is too big for you Girl-child is a woman engaged now and memories are not fireflies housed in jars on summer nights or else I’d have a collection of endless summers   *photo: Mother Nature Network