Poetry

1/14/2017
Realization as I wash my feet
If I ended up
spending
the rest of my life
like this—
making more space
for you

in my heart,
in the moments
spent
with my breakfast,
with the dishes,
with the music,
with my feet,

—and I died
and you never did come back,

that would be
a full …
12/19/2016
The Wordless Place
On good mornings, I wake
and start with faithful work
to build the wordless place:
two mugs of coffee, two slabs of butter,
cushioned space where a body
can recognize itself.

I do not think
therefore I am not
a hero or a failure
or a laborer
or a mind …
11/9/2016
November Nine
Why did I wait
till now,
till I'm watching in horror
as these hidden elements
of my Self
revolt, finally finding their voice
in dysfunction?
It's so clear now:

When this part wanted to cry
I smiled.
When this part flushed with desire
I stiffened my spine.
When this part …
10/21/2016
In the Morning
I swear
bipolar disorder is worth it
just for the mornings
unforeseen, undispellable
underwear dancing.
10/8/2016
Bitter Mornings
Somehow after I concede
to the indulgence of breakfast—
that is, food and time
spent with buttered coffee
and a quiet soak in the pool
of my sadness and anger
and melancholy longing,
slow and still enough
to watch the mud settle—
I feel like myself
and I can't quite …
8/6/2016
Conspiracy
Here in the place you left, I stay
vigilant through the days of your absence
and begin to notice
a pattern: slight but unmistakable
suggestions, unlikely coincidences
among the day's arrangement of smiles,
daylight, flashes of delight.
Here in the place you left
longing, a conspiracy vast
beyond imagining takes …