Tag: literature

A Mutual Aching to Leave

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from March, 2022.

I. cardiffian, n.

I start my day
watching river water
flow into the bay.

II. barley sugar, n.

A candy shop by the footbridge
switches its sign
from closed to open.
The display case filled with fudge,
hard candies my mom would like.
I consider buying them, before remembering
she’s gone.

III. beastie, n.

A dog walks by that looks like hers.
No matter how far I travel,
I cannot escape her memory.

IV. interrrobang, n.

I keep landing on
inconsequential memories,
not ones with thematic resonance
or impactful consequences.
Why do I keep thinking
about the time her tea kettle vibrated
on the element, her worried exclamation
asking me what I did, her laugh
afterward scolding herself
for jumping to conclusions?

V. toyetic, adj.

I used to run across the house
barefoot on Saturday mornings
to beat her to the tv
so I could watch cartoons.

She’d bring me breakfast,
which I’d absent-mindedly ignore
while children would command
small monsters to attack each other.

VI. kente, n.

I head back to my hotel;
wrap her urn in a cloth
made by her best friend,
gifted at her memorial back home;
place it in my backpack
to take her on a Dr. Who walking tour —
something she asked for
in the hospital.

VII. anythingarian, n.

As I walk
from landmark to landmark,
I debate
what to do with her ashes.
She told me
many different ideas, locations,
never settling.

VIII. chipmunk, n. and adj.

During a break for lunch,
a chipmunk approaches
my table outside the cafe,
looks me dead in the eye.
I see her. In those eyes. It’s like
she’s sending me a message.

IX. bandulu, n. and adj.

A voice emits from the eyes.
“Rialto Beach. Scatter me
on the rocky shore.”

I open the permit application when I get
back to my hotel, but the letters
blur, the boxes checker.

I book a flight back home.
I’ll just go the coast and
do the thing.

X. zombocalypse, n.

People walk around the airport
like packages on a conveyor belt.
I sit alone by my gate
in an uncomfortable pleather chair
when someone walks toward me,
sits in the seat right next to me.

It is my mother.

XI. cuddy wifter, n.

A notepad appears on her lap,
a pen in her left hand.
She draws quick lines
to make feathers
of a great blue heron
standing in a still pond.

“I want so much to be at peace.”
Her voice a tired drawl.

XII. amaxophobia, n.

The ceiling dings. An announcement
about my flight boarding soon.

“I can’t believe you flew my ashes across the planet. You know I hate flying.”

“You said you wanted to see the places in Dr. Who. And it was a walking tour.”

“You can’t believe everything a dying woman tells you.”

XIII. bassa-bassa, n.

The ceiling dings.
My boarding group is called.

She stands before I do, stomps
her feet, yells at me for putting her
through this.

People walk through her
as she screams.

XIV. belove, n.

She continues to guilt me
as I walk through the skybridge,
down the aisle to my seat
near the back of the plane.

I’m sure she will go on
for the whole ten hours
until we land in Seattle.

I will do whatever is needed
to give her peace. It’s what
a son should do.

XV. overshare, v.

My guilt is immense.
Guilt about making her travel;
guilt if I hadn't traveled in the first place.
There is no winning.
My guilt is immense.

XVI. utopiate, n.

My ZzzQuil kicks in somewhere
over the Atlantic; I fall
asleep. My feet bare,
toes dug into the edge of sand
pulled under by the surf.
Soft wind, quiet roar,
the sun behind
a pale canvas of clouds.

XVII. flaithulach, adj.

The last time
my mom saw the coast —
winter — a last escape
before chemo kept her
homebound.
She stood on driftwood logs,
arms wide, a deep breath of salty air.
Ocean spray or tears, I’m unsure.

XVIII. powfagged, adj.

An overhead announcement
of our imminent arrival in Seattle
wakes me. My eyes struggle open.
My mom's voice crescendos
as blurs transition into shapes.
She scolds me for falling asleep
while she was talking.

XIX. credentialism, n.

Baggage claim, she draws me in
a graduation robe, holding a diploma cover.
“I wish I could have seen it.”

“Me too.”

“You shouldn’t have taken that semester off.”

“I had to. You are more important than a piece of paper.”

“I was dying. That ‘piece of paper’ would have been your key to a successful future.”

XX. bestiary, n.

I wait for my Uber
in the parking garage.
Midmorning, the smell
of concrete and gasoline.
Five Subarus drive by
ten people and one ghost
waiting for their getaways.

A blue Prius pulls up.
The driver leans their purple hair
out of the window to announce my name.
They offer to help with my suitcase,
but I decline, placing it in the backseat,
until my mom mutters
under her breath. I put it in the trunk.

XXI. wych elm, n.

The driver makes small talk
while my mom complains
about how everything’s changed.

They stop the car just past the driveway
under the tree in our front yard
whose branches leave
a fluctuating pattern on the hood.

I transfer luggage from their car to mine
while my mom taps her foot,
stares at the mailboxes down the road.

XXII. free solo, n.

I take 512 to I-5 to 101 for a beat,
route 8 to 12, then back to 101,
but clockwise,
along the coast —
the sun sinks into the pacific.

She watches it all in silence.

XXIII. siu mei, n.

The full moon exposes
a near-empty parking lot.
The rocky shore tinted blue, except
for an orange spot at
the driftwood’s edge.
A family sits on logs around it,
laughing, singing.

XXIV. light fantastic, n.

My mom walks
over the logs to the wet sand
— no footprints —
and dances to the singing family.

XXV. imagineer, n.

I wake up to an overcast sky —
a matte canvas
behind my fogged windshield.
My mom's urn secure
in my backpack beneath
the passenger seat.

It’s time for her final walk
along the coast.

XXVI. archaeobotanist, n.

“Before you were born, your father drove us out here for a weekend in the summer. Rialto was pretty unknown back then — hardly any other people were walking the shore. You could really hear the waves crash and the rocks shuffle beneath your feet.

“We sat on a log right around here for a break halfway to Hole in the Wall, and I just stared at the horizon. The crashing waves surrounded me. Then your father, that sweet man, put this flower in my lap — looked like a paintbrush imbued with fire — so orange, so warm.

“I kept that flower in a notebook for years. I pressed it between the pages I wrote about the trip.

“I never wanted to forget.”

XXVII. dayside, n. and adj.

After a rest, Hole in the Wall in sight,
I take her urn out of my backpack.
It feels like
she would want to see it approach,
feel the sun
one last time.

XXVIII. saketini, n.

She squats over a tide pool
to poke a crab hiding
under an anemone.
It flinches, untouched.
She laughs. “Yes,” a sigh,
“That’s what I needed.”

XXIX. chip, v.

The rock juts out into the water.
Hole in the Wall, an arch at its end.
Tide’s coming in; I have to move fast.
I step around tide pool edges
barefoot, quickly, before they’re buried.

XXX. monophobia, n.

Under the arch, anemones sway
in tide pools sloshed by the incoming tide.
I hesitate. Her urn, opened, in my hands.
I know I need to. I know she needs it.
But what will happen? What will happen
when she is finally gone?

XXXI. jeune premier, n.

I scatter her ashes along the tide pools
on the north side of Hole in the Wall.
I look south to her standing on the other side.

She walks toward me through the arch,
dissolves in beads of light, which expand
to the Hole’s rim, fade to an overcast sky.

Odds & Evens

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from February, 2022.

I. bak kwa, n.

A new year, another long day
corralling teenagers into
an English class reading a book
half of them won’t open.

Stayed late again, grading essays,
finalizing semester grades.
The smell of pork in our foyer
from the dinner you’re cooking.

II. crafternoon, n.

You’ve been working late,
like every other January.
The sun sets before you’re home —
before you even start driving,
I’m sure. I created a sun
using some tissue paper from
the tub of wrapping stuff in the closet,
hang it over the gas fireplace, switched on,
so you could bask in its warmth.

III. haterade, n.

For 15 minutes, I ramble
about the grading system erroring out
all afternoon,
making me hand-enter each grade
for my 170 students.

You listen patiently
to complaints I’ve made
so many times before.

IV. orthogonally, adv.

After I place food on the table,
you take your usual seat
on the side of the table to my right —
the same seat you took
on our first date years ago,
saying that
the seat directly across from me
would be too far away.

V. shakebuckler, n.

I finally stop talking and
ask about your day.

You talk about the traffic downtown
on your way to city hall,
an argument you had with
Councilmember Meyers
about building better infrastructure
for busses and bikes around town.
“He said to me, no joke,
‘You bring this issue up
at every damn council meeting.
We simply don’t have the funds.’
And then, when I brought up
last year’s increase to police funding,
he slapped the folder out of my hand!”

VI. antiquating, n.

Meyers has been
— and always will be —
stuck in the past.
I’ve argued with him
— constantly —
throughout my entire tenure
on city council.

VII. oojamaflip, n.

There’s a term you always use
to describe Councilmember Meyers
that I can never remember
until you say it again.

The memory plays back,
but the audio muffles.
I see your smile, I hear our laughter,
but I can’t hear the word.

VIII. froideur, n.

I continue,
“It’s like he can’t even entertain the idea
he might be wrong or
should change course
ever. He just double-downs on
every. single. issue.
Even Louis Armstrong would call him
a moldy fig.”

You laugh.

IX. chicken finger, n.

Some students eat in my room at lunch —
the commons’s chaos too much for them.
They carry little cardboard bowls,
small cartons of chocolate milk.
We talk while we eat, and
they ask about you.
When I tell them about
your infrastructure bill
and Councilmember Meyers,
they are as heated as you were
at dinner last night.
They ask if they can do anything to help,
and I get an idea.

X. chopsy, adj.

Meyers gives a longwinded speech
at our next council meeting —
the first Monday of February.
His prattling is punctuated
by his wrinkled cheeks shaking
every time he sneers the word
“homeless.”

XI. bonze, n.

My class’s next unit
focuses on world religions,
so I invited a priest
from the Buddhist temple across town
to talk to my kids.

They talked about
community.

XII. japchae, n.

I take a long lunch
after the morning session —
long, because of the time it takes
to get to my favorite Korean restaurant across town, both
by foot (because of the distance)
or car (because of the traffic),
which are the only viable methods of travel
due to the inaction of city council.

XIII. rakeshame, n.

Kids tend to talk in simplified terms —
good people, bad people,
nothing in between.
So when my lunch group talks about
organizing a protest,
I have to remind them
(albeit begrudgingly)
that Councilmember Meyers is a person,
not a monster.

XIV. passado, n.

The restaurant is empty,
like most days,
despite signage outside detailing
their deals,
their signature dishes.
They greet me by name (and title).
I watch car after car
pass by.

XV. maple leaf, n.

The season’s last leaf whimpers
on a branch outside
my classroom window.

Change begins with
whispers on a breeze.

XVI. anecdata, n.

While my lunch cooks, the daughter
who runs the cash register tells me
her family’s history — how busy
they used to be, before
Main Street became a highway,
starving side-street restaurants
like theirs.

XVII. foul case, n. and adj.

It’s so hard to not step in
when your kids — so full
of passion, energy — 
stumble over their words,
to not take the reins.
They need to learn this,
do it themselves.
You're just there to support them.

XVIII. haggis-headed, adj.

My heart hurts as she gives me my lunch.
I want to help them, and every other
family-owned business in my district, but —
but.
I stumble over my words.
I can make promises all day;
promises don’t help people.
The laws need to change.

XIX. witches’ broom, adj.

Every day more kids show up
to prepare for a protest on the 14th.
They complain about
their families’s stores struggling,
not being able to get anywhere on their own.
They call Councilmember Meyers a fungus.

XX. whoo-ee, int.

I wake up Sunday morning
while you’re making breakfast,
my phone bursting with notifications.
The top one is a message from my assistant
with a link to an article in the Tribune
in which Councilmember Meyers
calls my plan “unamerican,”
“an attack on our way of life.”
A day before the vote and he pulls this.
I hate
how little I’m surprised.

XXI. enoughness, n.

The kids decided on a walkout
at the end of 4th period
leading to a march to City Hall.
They timed it so they would arrive
just as arguments
on the infrastructure bill
would begin. They created signs,
flooded Instagram and Snapchat,
built a crowd to overwhelm the sidewalk
they’d have to take there.

XXII. dwaal, n.

As the session gets closer,
I sift through the notecards
of my speech, eyeing
the window to the courtyard.
You said your students would arrive
as the session began. What if
they don’t show up? What if
I fumble my words? I miss the gavel
marking the start of the session;
Meyers takes the floor.

XXIII. gyaff, n.

One of my students in sixth period
tells me some parents joined the march
with wagons full of water bottles and
granola bars from Costco.
Only one-third of my students remained
at the end of the day.
I’m out of the parking lot before the buses.

XXIV. genericide, n.

Meyers moves through
the usual talking points
as a crowd forms outside.
They pour in, all these kids,
fill the balcony, signs waving 
about their independence.
His speech drowns in
their cacophony.

XXV. garderobe, n.

I have to park in the library parking lot
a block away from city hall, because
all the street parking is taken.
Some students shout to get my attention
from the middle of the crowd outside.
They clear a path for me to get inside
to the staircase to the spectator balcony.
I look over a mountain range of heads
just in time to see you stand up
to begin your speech.

XXVI. woofle, v.

“What my colleague fails to realize is that our community is growing. This growth is beyond the comprehension of our predecessors, who fervently believed that sprawling outward was their best option — an option supported by the modern real estate community and some members of city council.

“The sprawl is unsustainable, both in a physical and a communal sense. We have neighborhoods extending out of our city limits into unincorporated areas, but the children in those incorporated neighborhoods attend schools within our limits, within our care. Those children — like the children filling the balconies now — need to have access to our city’s assets: our parks, our schools, our stores. They must be able to traverse the land in our care effectively and safely- whether that be by foot, bike, or public transit.

“The dependence on cars has hurt our local businesses. Many small stores, the family businesses that built this city in the first place, are struggling, collapsing due to a declining customer base, primarily due to the siphoning of routes to Main Street and their shops being one block too far off that path.

“This bill, which I authored, allocates city funds to the creation and maintenance of resources to fix these problems: sidewalks on streets within school zones, bike lanes on major roads throughout the city, buses with more accessible and reliable routes.

“Certain members of this council have called this plan ‘unamerican.’ And, they are are correct if we only take an antiquated view of what America was. If we look at what America is, what America could be, this plan is as American as it gets.

“The vitriol with which some members of city council use to denigrate this bill is antithetical to the promises they’ve made to support their constituents and their community.

“We should be fighting for our community. We should be fighting for the independence of empowerment of our youth. We should be fighting for our local businesses. We need this bill to aid in these fights.

“Thank you.”

XXVII. antical, adj.

Thunderous applause
as you step away from the podium.
Your name
chanted by students in the balcony.
Your face
so full of pride, confidence, triumph.
You wave
when you find my face in the crowd.

My heart is so full.
I love you so much.
I am so proud of you.

XXVIII. jump-up, n.

The path of progress
has a steep incline,
many switchbacks,

but eventually, we will
reach the summit; the future —
the line where the sky and ridge meet.

There is no one else
I’d rather be on this journey with
than you.

A Time We Were

I’ve typed half an email to you
a dozen times, desperate
as a maple reaching over a scenic byway.

Do you remember
when we used to communicate
through the wind?
I could hear your voice, your thoughts,
just by how you exhaled through your nose
during one of Mr. Slater’s lectures.

We could be states apart,
but I would still know;
thoughts were leaves
on autumnal breezes
falling on the mossy forest floor.

Heavy currents eroded our bridge,
felled trees snapped our power lines,
space debris brought down our satellites,
and now you’re just ones and zeros —
a silent amalgamation of pixels.

A Tsunami Advisory

She asks if you’re awake.

Your eyes struggle open.

Her silhouette blurry in your tent’s doorway
against the morning’s overcast sky.

Your throat attempts a word.

She tells you not to panic —
a volcano erupted across the ocean;
the National Weather Service said
there’s a chance for a tsunami
along the coast where you’re camping.
“Not a warning, an advisory.”

You nod your head, eyes closing.

She zips the tent flap closed as she leaves.

Brisk air bites your face,
which peeks out of your cocoon.
You see waves tower over the shore,
lift your tent, rip its stakes out of the ground.
You wonder whether
you and your sleeping bag would float
along the surf to the cranberry fields down the road.

You wonder whether
that would be the worst outcome.
You see your classroom; your students;
a painted rock gifted by one, defaced
with a slur by another, left under your desk.
You feel failure, consider the possibility
they would be better off with another teacher.

You remind yourself:
your brain does this all the time,
there is evidence to the contrary.

You can’t see any.

We went to see my grandfather

A stop before a three-hour drive home.
A subject I, at fourteen, avoided.
A hospital.

I walked in last,
stared at the tiles on the floor until I was nudged to say
hello.

When I looked up, I saw him.
A gown. Wires. Tubes. Shadows from an overhead light.
My mind saw him die and I cried.
No words.

He frowned —
scowled, maybe.
“Get out of here with that!” he yelled.
I remember him raising his arm up to shoo me away.

My mom gave me the keys to her Expedition.
I sat there
trying to find air.

When she joined me, she asked,
“Why were you crying?”

My thoughts intercepted
by arguments and counterarguments shouted across a crowded conference hall.
Reverberating echoes off a tall ceiling.
No words.

I leaned my head on the window away from her,
watched the world blur.

Whatever Home Is

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from December, 2021.

I. flatshare, v.

Someone always there
to take care of the dishes.

Someone always there
to sign for packages.

Someone always there
to watch for red Corollas.

II. amirite, int.

They walk up behind me
as I watch the traffic
two floors below— green Forester.

A hand on my shoulder, they sit
on one of the throw pillows
we scattered on the floor in front of
the sliding glass door
to the porch— blue Civic.

They flick their wrist
toward the street, say,
“Next summer blockbuster!”
Met with silence — yellow Mustang.

III. infodemic, n.

It takes time to sift through it all —
the humans on the sidewalk,
the song of warblers by the window feeder,
the caws of crows by the garbage cans,
the whistle of their tea kettle boiling,
the glare of the sun in the glass door —
in order to focus on the cars in the street.

IV. amscray, v.

Early evening, a familiar shape
of headlights come round the corner.
They slow by our building, connected
to a body the shade of dried blood.
I spin so quick, the pillow slides out
from under me across the fake-wood floor,
and I have to scramble to my feet,
dash through the apartment to the bedroom
closet, slam the door shut.
A suitcase’s coarse fabric rubs my temple.

V. bardo, n.

No light.
Three thumps.
A click.
A squeaky hinge.
Muffled voices.
Silence.
A suitcase’s zipper in my fingers.
Footsteps in the hallways.
A gulp.

VI. fastballer, n.

Everything happens
in the blink of an eye.
The closet door opens,
my arm is pulled,
the suitcase is packed,
and I am planted
in the backseat of the car
staring out the window
as the curb flows by me
like the water of a river.

VII. phantastikon, n.

A man runs along the curb,
jumps over hydrants,
swings under streetlights,
grinds along benches.
He speeds up, slows down
in tandem with the car.

VIII. Fast-medium, adj. and n.

I’m put in a chair in front
of a large desk covered
in loose papers, sloppy folders.
A person in a wrinkled suit
sits behind it, says their name,
quickly asks a bunch of questions, 
checking boxes on a piece of paper
hidden by a beat-up clipboard.

IX. amatorio, n.

On the person’s desk is a small tray,
no bigger than a side dish, which has
a couple stress balls in it. After several
questions I don’t answer, they offer
a ball from the tray, which I accept,
because it feels like the right thing to do.
The tray is thick, uneven, and in the vacuum
left by the ball I grabbed is some writing
painted on messily. “Mom” and a heart is all
I see before the tray is back on the desk.
I squeeze the ball and breathe.

X. fairyism, n.

I am not in my body
for the rest of the interview.
I float through the ceiling fan’s blades,
watch my body’s mouth
answer her questions,
don’t hear anything.

XI. taffety, n. and adj.

When I land back in my body,
my eyes lock on the curtain
over her right shoulder.
Teal waves against
an overcast sky.

XII. scribacious, adj.

She hands me
a composition book with a cheap pen
to express my thoughts, saying
it can help
me process my feelings.
She escorts me to a small room
with a desk and a twin bed,
says we’ll talk tomorrow.

XIII. botheration, int. and n.

I don’t get how writing something is going to help me think about anything. It doesn’t even make sense. I’d just “process” the literal words on the page; there’d be nothing deeper than that. How is writing a detailed play-by-play of me walking to the grocery store going to help anyone do literally anything? It’s just stupid. Fucking pointless.

XIV. slow drag, n.

It was last Tuesday. We were out of milk and bread, so I had to walk to the Safeway on the other side of the apartment complex.

Taylor wanted to have Mac and cheese for dinner, but without milk, they couldn’t make it. I suggested just using water, but they scoffed at me.

The bread was my idea. I thought it would be good to get a fancy sourdough instead of our usual 12 grain loaf. It’s December; people get to splurge during the holidays.

I didn’t realize how icy it was. I saw it snow that morning, yeah, but I figured over the course of the day, it must have thawed out.

I was wrong.

I only made it around the corner of our building before I slipped. I landed hard on my hip. That’s why there’s a bruise there. 

Nothing else happened.

XV. ballyhack, n.

Wake up. Breakfast. Write. Group. Write. Lunch. Write. Solo. Dinner. Write. Bed.

XVI. lachrymabund, adj.

It happens suddenly,
middle of the
the second night.
A weight presses
on my chest —
I can’t breathe.
Every memory alive
full-throated screaming into
a flat pillow,
wet with tears.

XVII. fairwater, n.

Around three, I give up
on sleep, stare at the
constellations in the ceiling tiles.
Maybe there is a future
where my brain doesn’t eat itself,
where my ribs aren’t a windy cavern.
I slide the notebook off the nightstand,
scribble in the dark.

XVIII. autokinesis, n.

There’s a streetlight visible
through the metal mesh
of my room’s window.
It swings in a wind
that doesn’t affect the tree branches
or the pole that holds it.

XIX. popskull, n.

The first time was the morning after Taylor shared some moonshine they made in their apartment’s detached garage.

It was their first attempt. They were so proud of themself. So I tried it. You have to support your sibling, right?

My mouth and throat felt like a python had contracted around them. I took each punch as well as I could. I hadn't had liquor before, but people at my school talk about it all the time, so I figured it would grow on me. A rite of passage or whatever.

When I woke up the next morning, my head throbbed. It felt like Neil Peart was doing a drum solo on my brain.

The pain was unlike anything I’d felt before. Felt like it would never go away. I wanted to let it out. So, I dragged myself to the craft drawer and found the X-Acto knife. Took it to my thigh.

XX. medium coeli, n.

During every solo session,
the lady talks to me
about what I wrote
during the previous writing session
as if
I’m the protagonist of a tv show
she’s binging.
Like I fit into some archetype,
some box, and she already knows
everything about me.

XXI. sunstay, n.

There’s supposed to be
some epiphany
I have while locked in this room.
That’s what they tell me.
That’s what happens in movies.
Where the fuck is it then?

XXII. supervacaneous, adj.

I give up on correcting her
the fifth time she calls Taylor
my “brother.”
She must have selective hearing
or selective memory, at least —
whatever fits the narrative.
I only need to last
one more day.

XXIII. toyi-toyi, n.

“… and that’s why I believe it would not be in your best interest return to your brother’s apartment.”

“You can’t.” I stand up. “You can’t.”

“It simply isn’t a safe environment for you. Your writing indicates,” she flips open my notebook on her desk, “he served you alcohol, thus creating a situation in which you purposefully harmed yourself,” she flips to an earlier page, “and your bruises have dubious origins that you are not being honest about.”

“You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.”

XXIV. belsnickel, n.

Everything feels
slow motioned and fast forwarded:
my hands slam her desk,
two nurses grab my arms,
hallway doors like trees along the highway.

Last year, Christmas Eve,
Taylor spent hours
making dinner for the two of us.
Because that’s what you do
after your family exiles you.

XXV. jough, n.

Christmas night, two years ago.
After a day of small talk,
stories from decades past,
unsolicited advice from aunts and uncles,
I escaped to the patio
just outside the porch light’s range.
Taylor came by, placed
a warm mug in my cold hands.
We sat in silence under
cloudy sky, falling snow.

XXVI. gombey, n.

I put on a stoic face when they come
to pick me up with my suitcase.

I put on a grateful face when I arrive
at a foster home full of strangers.

I put on a welcoming face at dinner
while I tell stories about a made-up past.

XXVII. lime, n.

There are three other kids
around the dinner table.
They nod along with my lies,
introduce themselves, but
their names
don’t register in my brain.

XXVIII. ginny gall, n.

I hate it here. It doesn’t matter
how much food they give,
how much personal space is provided,
how much anime we watch.
It’s a strange house full of strangers.
I hate it here; it doesn't matter.

XXIX. hen-cackle, n.

Under the shroud
of pre-dawn twilight,
snow crunches
under my weight
with my suitcase.

XXX. sinigang, n.

I don’t recall
these streets,
these cars.
I try to remember
Taylor’s soup —
how it made me
feel warm, like home
even on the coldest nights —
and use that to guide me.

XXXI. willie-waught, n.

The place I sit, a bus stop bench,
is co’ered in ice and snow.
I guess I’ll sleep till morning comes.
I wish I had my phone. 
The cold consumes my fingertips
and gulps my soggy toes.
While snow upon my hat does pile,
my eyes begin to close.

I hear my name, a frosty crunch,
familiar to my ear.
I struggle up, but cannot see;
the streetlight's reach too short.
But once again, my name is said.
I rub my eyes and blink.
Then from the dark is Taylor’s scarf
unraveling from their neck.

They wrap their scarf
around me, hold my face
in their trembling hands.
Sitting beside me, they ask
what happened, dig out a flask
from their jacket.
After a swig, they offer it to me,
then take me back home.

a tether loosening

i fade in and out of the present
like a maple branch’s shadow on concrete
like the stars in a city’s sky
like a siren’s doppler effect
like the public’s interest in climate change

i fade in and out of the world
like a radio’s static on the highway
like a cell phone’s reception on the coast
like the tide of a rising sea
like a retina scar against clear blue sky

your lips keep moving, but words don’t make it ashore

A question I would ask you

Do you think trees get scared when the fog rolls in and they can’t see their friends?

That’s a question I would ask you if you weren’t swallowed by the galaxy’s ever-growing throat. Instead, it’s a question I ask myself on my drive home under Sara Bareilles singing about stirring cinnamon into coffee.

I climb out of the bedroom window and onto the once-ours roof after dusk that night to watch the sky go through rapid puberty. You don’t notice how much the lights from town pollute it until your favorite constellations, your guideposts, start loosing limbs.

Are you watching the same stars fade away? Maybe you’re walking on the sidewalk of the gentrified neighborhood downtown trying to decide whether to spend your grocery money at Trader Joe’s or Whole Foods. Maybe you’re sleeping in a box underground. Maybe you’re dust swimming in the Puget Sound around Orcas Island. Maybe you’re star stuff floating out there somewhere, slowly trying to reclaim the sky.

I think I like that one best.