Guess what? You’re the recyclable.

Shut your eyes. Focus. See the world as you’re made to see it, the way that allows you to survive.

There’s an equation for doubling. A graph that goes up and up. Is math the path to infinity?

Four words where there was one. How can we call them one again after seeing them doubled, quadrupled?

It’s strange that we can loosen our vision and watch one thing turn to two things turn to four things.

A juvenile Rock Wren is learning how to catch moths in my front yard.

Half the time, these doves fly wherever they want. The other half, they fly away from danger.

Fun with words: I may or may not have offered to give my husband a _____ in exchange for _____ last night.

It’s OK to buy blueberries and not eat them all. We all love imperfectly.

If your will isn’t simple and strange, how can your life be simple and strange?

To sleep, perchance to dream in my matching boyshorts and compression socks.

Knee-brace days. Compression-sock nights.

Sometimes ramming two shitty poems together can result in one slightly less shitty poem.

I wake to dozens of fruit flies dead in my bathtub.

May you be a large, Quaternary-age landslide of reddish-brown, Triassic-age Moenkopi Formation that flowed out of a canyon and came to rest here in this hellspace called Twitter.

A new scent called Thrift Store.

Poets are getting away with it because nobody understands what they’re doing. What is it? Healing. We’re healing. Ourselves, maybe others, too.

What did I forget today? A password. And something else.

An irrigation pipe bursts in the field. Horses stand up to their ergots in water. I think of Ukraine, all the flooding, all the flooding.

Ecologies

Eats: cockroaches
Eaten by: cats

Eats: flatworms
Eaten by: fish

Eats: seeds
Eaten by: snakes

Eats: nothing
Eaten by: men

Headline: Deadliest Creature on Earth Is Now Active in Upstate New York. You mean humans?

The body and mind can’t take eighteen years of constant abuse from within the family, from within the school, from within the community, without repercussions. We aren’t designed to withstand that kind of abuse. But we are designed to heal.

This will soon be a memory-loss journal. It’s probably been one for some time. Why can’t I choose which memories go and which stay? The love is going but not the fear.

I forgot how to fasten my bra today. I forgot my address. I forgot a third thing that I’ve forgotten.

What I am is increasingly what I was.

Every longing a cricket outside my window.

You need something to drive your feet into, something to drive a flag into, something to dream from, fall from, come back from: alive then dead or dead then alive.

Tell the mountain not to mountain and who will scale the mountain? Who will look down on ruin from such a distance that every mistake and mangling glimmers?

These lips, this hair, this tongue. The way I stare you down and won’t stop. Who’s going to blink first, wild girl?

It’s you I reach for in my dreams as you slide into shadow.

Then one bright day it’s back, that damn thought—or is it a feeling—pumping its arms up and down looking for a mate, a twin thought or feeling to attach itself to.

A roll, a topple, a slide—we all come back to the lowest point, our lives a downward slope, a wanting even as we break, even as we absorb heat from an unrelenting sun.

Grief, like love, can flower.

Let me be the rock where birds eat their prey, little legs dangling, broken, soft bodies split, organs tangled and glimmering.

Something died on the sidewalk. Everyone is bent over, looking.