100 days

by

poetry: tomorrow

shift you rock, the house plants
are begging for water. television 
folds fingers. sugar teeth bite
flesh as golden lions dance
across carpet. oh, look there–
a lizard marks time, tiny
rhythmic bows against dirty
window pane. heavy blanket 
expands, squeezing harder. 
tomorrow, you whisper. rivers
drown narrow view, guiding
you back to flickering screen.

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poetry: three 

new fuzzy socks for us three,
ordered and delivered within
one day. the cheap kind 
leaving fuzz trails through 
the house. let’s drink some
water, drape soft blankets 
over our legs. we don’t say
worry or the c word, too early
to tell. maybe this time next 
week we will know, hold 
hands, facing it all, including
all these damn fuzz balls
from these cheap socks.

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poetry: so full

someone ate my baby carrier
my handheld tape recorder
those faded brown cowboy boots
the pink fuzzy case of CDs
a pile of watercolor hearts
that sunflower babydoll dress

ate all these pieces of me
repeating under their breath,
keep moving forward
keep moving forward
but it’s hard to walk
with so much missing

*74/100: For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. All photos are mine.