(Mama) will you wash my face

Now when she sees I seek alone
She comes to me, she asks

Grief Love

As if picking up grief – in this case – was also picking up the mirror I kept trying to wipe clear, and turning it around . . . Pulling my shoulders back like a mother would tell a child that grew before the other kids, and boldly holding up my mirror like I could Say Anything.

what happened when I shed the cloak my mother gave me

I put my fingers to my solar plexus and am not sure if it’s the flattening of hands I need or a boring inward. Who needs healing today.

the waiting chair

For all of the little girls sitting in chairs.
Waiting for all of the little girls sitting on stoops.

a private grief

This past week – in my dis-ease – I looked out the same window that Chris spent many a day gazing through, as his body broke down. I remembered his silence, his privacy. I converged with it a little further, as I too feared from within my body. And I too said nothing.

pandemic routine

Twitter has this beautiful imperfection and permanence to it; you cannot edit a tweet. So writing a story on Twitter – especially the way I write, compelled – is a particular kind of challenge in terms of awareness and seizing the flow.

source

Perhaps you have read my words of childhood listening? Me as a small ball on the floor, soft, red blanket methodically tucked around so as to secure myself from the wolf who was spinning on the record player as the horn section.

in tens

. . . . the realization when you look back is that you have moved forward, in both what you have accomplished and in how you have made mistakes.

carry on

Maybe having my baggage checked isn’t about putting it away, but rather opening it up to take a look-see at who it is that I am sharing . . .

Beardo’s Day

Let’s bring death, to life.