Some-thing

I am at the cusp of 
figuring out how I feel
these tears near the edge
of something and I wonder
will I investigate their origin
or coat this heart with platitudes,
an untrustworthy balm that never
does the job of making anyone
feel better even here in the corner
of the bagel shop where despite
AirPods pressed to my ears 
I can’t help
but hear 
the teenagers come to
order sandwiches for lunch and
my emotions, a delicate palette of
angst and peace spitfire ideas–
you are fine, no, you are worried,
no, scared, no, just melancholy and
that is okay, you know, you know
you are okay and
the tears fall on the pages then
this kindness of listening
to loneliness implore
again and again, 
hear me.

If My Life Were to Tell You

Say it out now, loud enough so I 

can hear it, the way you say my 

name, like it is holy, ground worth

walking on, like you enjoy it here,

and I see it, feel it on these stones

beneath my feet, my hands scraping

air like it can hold me up, afraid as I

am of falling, so hear me, this story 

I’ve never told, at least not in a way my

self recognizes, in the journey

when you know me, all the false

starts and beautiful inroads (some 

might call them lies) that show me

one truth–I want you here, the way 

you tell me the truth and make it 

palatable, this castle of sand knocked 

over with tired feet.

February in California

Fog nestles itself against the house

for me to scoop up in my hands

to create an opening

a hallway

a door to run through

open to sunshine’s laughter

all the people in their colored jackets

of blue and red and gold

welcome travelers who come seeking

respite, the quiet place of mirth

where heaven’s lodging

is provided in all weather

the tucked away places 

as I perch

on my couch

legs crossed

dog hugging my bare feet

and study orange on still branches

watching gray melt away

in morning sun.

The Kitchen

How can I tell you

the things that happened here

in this space

my body, hips and stomach

leaning, white wood on gray concrete,

for it amazed me 

(the way mothers are amazed by

their love,

disarming them completely), 

the way she moved 

with such happiness,

delight in her small body,

dancing to music we played,

and her ability to climb

up to the kitchen counter 

from the stool and press up against

her brothers’ shoulders while

their little hands gripped avocado for a snack.

And now I stand there, both myself and

watching myself

amazed at my capability to love

with an intensity that would surely kill me

except it saves me too 

and I am so grateful, 

praying with all those years—

help me love better—

that my love wasn’t what

had to be enough

for us all.

Abundance

Let this day be when it begins

and all possibility sings loud and long

a chorus we drape around our shoulders

a balm on our necks

not for medicinal purposes but for

the throwing off of regret

and the crushing weight of time

making all moments what we fear

rather than celebrate,

small jewels in our hands

that grow in abundance when we

open our palms, our fingers

wide and brave,

and set them free to

be beautiful,

existing for what they are and nothing else

we make them to be, 

like you,

like me,

as love covers us and we submerge 

completely

inside it and never leave,

our jeweled hearts beating that song

you hear now don’t you?

Where Dreams Live

They stay with me for a few moments

after waking, the blurred pictures in 

my mind I had while dreaming, 

conversations so interesting I want 

to return to them to see how they end,

or decisions on the brink of being made

that would affect, you know, how we 

feel about each other. And I am sure, 

for those brief minutes between sleeping 

and waking, I am at my most powerful,

a masterful conductor of will as I 

attempt to stay present for this wild show, 

like I can control the actors in it, and 

by doing so, help them make choices 

that will be good (I pray, be kind!) but 

often I just watch the events unfold 

willy-nilly, mesmerized by the place 

where dreams live, in some static state, 

delineated by both reality and possibility, 

and I am realizing, as much as I do enjoy 

the show, the entertainment of watching 

myself in a scene both familiar and 

unknown and not being able to change

a script I’ve never been given, I like waking 

up even more, especially when the house

is still and I can tiptoe out to the kitchen, 

throw open wide the windows and inhale,

deep in my lungs, the sweet air of morning.