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.
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.
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.
walk through green darling
toward the wide sky
mother moon calls you
calls you, like she did i
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.
be a verb, you said—
wedging into a far back booth
bracelets clatter beside
a thick white mug
laptop clings stuck
against wood grain
sugar packets line up
salt and pepper wait
creamer cups pool
dusty red lamps glow
we didn’t speak
after comfort failed
and I thought about
bits of yellow paper
found in the dryer—
sometimes the sky talks
not through weather
or shifts in light
but by peeking through
a crumbling roof
first day of school today
my nephew wore a soft hoodie
he hugged me near white roses
while my old friend sang
and played a blue guitar
i stood here before
and before
but i’m not the same
draw me another day
one where the doctor
didn’t make a mistake
i got the shot
and it worked
Bridgette Tales 