rose hip hat
on a tiny mouse
and i forget
to water again
poetry: august 25th
plucking piano keys, i picture
you, sitting on my couch.
purple sweater, chocolate cake.
your laugh, like rumbling joy,
lives in my walls.
today marks the day we said goodbye.
years ago, holding hands until cold.
i play the only song i know:
Jolene, about being chosen.
you loved Dolly.
both hard workers—
rhinestone and cleaning gloves.
she left us today, too,
splitting my grief.
out of tune, i sing,
your beauty is beyond compare.
gathering kindness into notes,
remembering.
developed.
your smile is like a breath of spring.
capture. photos. frame.
grit.
moving across the room,
i gather my camera.
holding it with two hands.
my happiness depends on
what i do next.
poetry: violets in the window
grandma was—
juniper and oranges.
wood floors and dark rosewood.
peanut butter toast on a tiny plate.
wheel of fortune.
perfectly set curls.
silk scarves.
manicured lawn.
violets in the window.
collector of Jesus plates.
absent mother.
holder of my hand.
founder at her church.
disappointed in me.
I’m—
peppermint and coffee.
old paper and candlelight.
sourdough torn from the loaf.
bowie and labyrinth.
messy bun.
labradorite necklace.
dead grass.
violets in the window.
tiny rocks in baskets.
devoted to my children.
holder of babies.
founder of women’s group.
afraid i’ll disappoint you.
*55/100: For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. All photos are mine.
poetry: summer dream
you can tell this isn’t my dream
because it’s quiet. this person
dreams in rhythm, an even hum
under their skin. they lie naked
in thick green grass. a lover’s
hand pressed against their tan
poetry: look where light takes root
follow the light
any of them
see them connect
you and me
bough and child
finger and key
cloud and vase
book and honey
gravity and peace
poetry: in childhood
feet find circular rhythms
under pine tree mothers.
sticks dig gardens alive
where root babies play.
pine needle braids tell
stone lions to sing.
mushrooms giggle free
wiggling toward peace.
give them bird music.
give them mossy toes.
give them warm earth.
in childhood—
let them be.
poetry: stairs beat
you’ve been dreaming
of stairs lately, climbing
them like toddlers do
when grownups forget
to latch the gate. leaping
without worry upward
because pain doesn’t
breathe yet. stepping
like drumming. one
beat. two beat. not
too hard beat. let’s
go again beat. turn
back time beat. hold
my hand beat. not
ready yet beat.
poetry: tell me something
i would sniff strawberry shortcake’s
hair in my dark closet when sad.
baby’s first dopamine hit. later
i’d imagine someone wanting to
sniff me. being comfort sounded
right. wooden bowl of oatmeal.
knitted blanket tucked around
shoulders. pile of old books.
motherhood touched this. briefly.
rock. sing. cuddle. being enough
for a time. mother’s first dopamine
hit. now, comfort is fog blowing
in and out. i sniff strawberries
but only worry they will spoil
early. too soft. wasteful. words
don’t chase me. slower. slower.
s l o w e r. hide under blanket
with phone. tell me something.
dopamine hit me. hit me. hip
hurts me. comfort turns sour.
sniff something, anything. no,
call me comfort. call me. me.
poetry: where the daisies bow
walk through green darling
toward the wide sky
mother moon calls you
calls you, like she did i
poetry: four birds
i’m thinking of birds
flying into the blue.
sky and waves. not
last night’s takeout
staring at me.
turn the heating
pad even higher.
shift. shift. shift.
watch another murder
mystery. blink.
dozens of prisms
scatter broken light
across striped chairs.
missing another meeting.
dodging another call.
drink more water.
another handful of pills.
swallow the dust.
look out.
four of them.
Bridgette Tales 