I can’t quantify a year. Or ten. I can’t look back and say …this moment was best. Because every second that my feet find their way to the cold hardwood floor each morning is a second I want to breathe …
Tag: Poem
An ode to oatmeal
The purple bowl with the dopey-eyed lama flies through the air, landing face-down on the hardwood, oatmeal exploding from all sides like an eruption of sticky silt landing heavy in a circumference of at least twelve feet from the epicenter. …
Intergalactic
The stars spin around her room, like we are underwater, in a fishbowl in a house in a life of coming and going. The rain has started and the mornings are so dark, stars bleed into the hallway, on the …
Unknown person
Afterwards, I am a subtraction. On the periphery. Exterior. Pinched into thin concaving bows of salty smoke. I inhale, and blow out. Ballooned contouring at a distance. Alone, I am here. I can’t remember if it was by choice. …
