lessons of the river:

how to remain
and still
make progress. 

powdered vegetable ranch
from pouch to container.
sour cream to
The Real Thing.

i wake around noon
to my mother grumbling:
“no one ever helps me.”
but isn’t that the way
it’s always been done.

sometimes you might think,
"i could do that."

but then why don't you. 

a heart that drips of sweat
and tears
from a mother
lost, now
finally, gone.

you handed me the pieces.
shattered shards of glass that stretched
beyond intuition.
reflections behind closed eyes, smile lines,
the beauty mark on your chin.
gazing into photos
like a mirror.

we find the strength to hold each other
from a distance.
a familiar but foreign self
fumbling through a life
gifted but
not received.

meanwhile
the black-eyed susans sing lullabies
all year long.
speak back and
i promise,
i will hear you.

eating waffles slow
and you
contemplate the weather.

i consider an arrangement of
clouds and corners.
bits, like thread
splitting
and growing
farther apart.

yoga is like spaghetti
for the mind.

you might not fit it all
in one bite,
but.
there's always more
where that came from.

delve deep into the pit
of your lover's stomach.
some things are learnt.
others,
found.

when you are standing
in the darkness
and you are scared.

remember.

the shadows are women
before you.