The Wind Still Blows

Good morning, again.
I’m still breathing. I’m still
Yours and still I’m unfixed
This Thursday in the middle of
The dregs of winter. Occasionally it
Occurs to me to believe that
This will be the best we get
And that seems awful, and then
Occasionally, after a night
Like last night when
Everything was exactly the
Same as the night before and the
Night before last, except that
The wind still blows this morning
Hard and mean and off the
Sound, I find myself in the
Tunnel pushed from behind and
Then I feel the momentum. … Read on…The Wind Still Blows

How Still – small stone

How still the house
Can be without
My son home:
I hear pages turning,
Socks sliding on
The hardwood, the
Gurgle of the baseboard
Heaters. These and also
Impatient jangling of
Nerves at once relieved,
Then shuddering with the
Call: hurry home!

I’m writing small stones as part of the January Mindful Writing Challenge. Please feel free to comment! And come read more small stones on Twitter.Read on…How Still – small stone

I Don’t Mean to Be Crass

I don’t mean to be crass
It’s just that
I’ve been alone all day and
I’ve got all these words
Clattering around inside me: mean,
Rusted out shards of
Everyday life tossed in a big ole
Heap, and so
By the time
We meet up at the playground and
Get the kids well-scattered on the
Spider climbers, then shrug off our
Weekend updates, I don’t
Intend to seem as if I
Am half-dozing-then-
Half-screeching through our
Chat.

You know…
I’ve dreamt of myself as a
Kitten-pawed belle, scraped and
Sanded free of my trigger-happy
Mouth. I’ve tried it on and
I’ve opted-instead, for
A life of apologies,
I guess, because it feels
Weird,
To me,
Being so sweet when life puffs out
These breaths of now and then which just
Stink like maggoty meat. … Read on…I Don’t Mean to Be Crass

I’d Like My Heart Back


I’m working hard to
Blame the shit out of you,
You cardiac surgeon who
Never met me but who
Transplanted my
Engine to another
State another
Lazy excuse and then said
It’s for the best.

I don’t give a shit
What you call her:
That heart pumps wildly
In this life, in this
Dream world, leaping
In a chorus of sister
Screams as it
Flies on daddy’s
Homemade tire swing. … Read on…I’d Like My Heart Back

To the Repair Station

A mother repairs toys for her children

Those afternoon hours seem as if they should be endless.
Miles and miles to fill before dinner and dad.
We drop our bags on the bench, and
We set our feet free, and I don’t have to say
Go play
Anymore to them, like I once did (they were
Uncertain of ‘what’s next?’ for years). Then
We all stare into the cupboard for awhile–
That takes time. The deciding and the eating,
And the crumb campaign too. Then they
Disappear into next-room neverland.

Meanwhile, I am
Afternooning, which is to say my mind has taken
Off on walkabout between defrosting dinner and
Facebook and unpiling the stack of papers over
There. And if I stop moving, I’ll be
Dragged by a frantic little lady and her
Plastic dog to the
Repair station for emergency
Battery-dectomy and tulle stitches.
Tomorrow someone will ask me how
Our summer went, and tonight I’ll
Try to fall to sleep and startle to
A parade of should-have-dones and
I’ll have to patch together
The reminder of one
Beautiful day.

Read on…To the Repair Station