Life is different—both too slow and too fast. Too slow, I am not quick enough to butter toast while it’s still hot or catch him when he falls from that one step before the fireplace. Fast is just a word for how time steals him from me. It steals him in his sleep—a new boy …
I loved him already. Sitting in front of my grandmother’s old house, a new family in the window. I steal a rose from their front porch. They were hers—the roses. They could live there for a hundred years and still the roses would be hers. And mine. And his. I press the rose up to …
Continue reading Bruised Roses
I am selfish with him—Behind a locked white door in bed we lie, never leavingThe world wants himWhile I am scrambling for time. Split halfway in two when he emergedMy body stitched together, much of me left pooling on a white tiled floorLabor of the body and of loveBlue lips and knotted cord—Is he breathing?I …
The Wild Heart of Life 