Death

We don’t talk about how relationships never end …. it feels … like reaching through air.

on cold days, I pour into my nana’s hands

My knuckles are bone inflamed.
Skin, Ponds soft
Shimmery
Short, red nails
Perhaps an opal
No. Brown-yellow topaz.

star born

“You realize we are sisters again, now that we are free.”

“Yes,” she said.

my resting place

I ground myself into the earth.
Here.

Veronica

I gave her back. Too.
When my own was born.
I gave much back.
So I could mother.

Pinkie

I love you. Your forehead; my lips. Your rings; my giving. Your lifeless body; my ring. My ring; your body leaving. My longing; your pinkie finger. My decision; topaz side by side. I love you.

Narrative on a Wound

The wound, the wound. You know that bearded man, the one who died? The one who died angry, who wrapped himself around me and I led him out? Well it’s been a year now and I’ve been angry (again). He never said good bye.

(no) superhero

Grief and joy are opposites. Except that grieve is the preferable word because it is not static. And if you let it live all of its lives, joy is a word that whispers constantly. And softly.

Swirling Place

… and all those around you
stand as they will.

Onwards

And then the cyclists
raise me upward.
Consume my eye.
They are waterproof
neck to ankle.
Onwards they pedal.
Onwards their eyes
say to me.