Bruised Roses

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 …

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Strawberry Jam

I wanted him to love me Until he said it Until he took the words and shoved them into syllables that I could count on just one hand. The words The way they sound inside his mouth The way they look inside the air Hovering before his face Their viscous form, blood red Like strawberry …

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A Mother

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 …

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Lace and Yellow Roses

It has been six months since my grandmother’s passing.  Sometimes things like art grow still inside a grieving heart.  Perhaps I'm ready to write again. Time will tell. She was singing a year ago, Thanksgiving in our kitchen, Which is why I remember it. Now I watch, through the narrow slit of a newly painted …

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The House Finch

There was a pair of house finches building a small nest outside our window. I’d watch them weave it all together—the female, with her muted brown feathers, working relentlessly on her art. The twigs meticulously placed, one over the next—how they intertwined with one another. The male, with his bright cherry red head and breast, …

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On a Hot Tin Roof

It’s taken me now just about a month to come up with words to express my feelings of our time. I’ve thought about it a lot—nearly endlessly, to be honest. The words I would normally write feel cheap—because it hasn’t really gotten better, certainly not for many of us. And it might not get better …

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