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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.

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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.

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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.

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