expose my roots in warm sunlight
soften all stems
let pearls fall
lean in closer
geosmin scented breath
see how twisted old thoughts grow
don’t go yet
shine through the particles
show me yours
9/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
you unlock the deadbolt and brace yourself.
He has to clear the entryway at a full sprint,
and you don’t want to be collateral damage.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
you better have sourdough toast, pickles,
and sparkling water on the counter.
Apparently, saving the neighborhood
requires a very specific diet.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
he will absolutely chase your rabbit around the backyard.
He’ll get burrs stuck to his polyester muscles,
sit in the hammock to pick them off,
and roast your gardening skills.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
he might peel back his mask just far enough to breathe,
expose his secret identity,
and clobber you at dominoes
until he literally rolls off his chair laughing.
When Spider-Man comes to your house,
you will notice the exact moment
his shins match the length of yours.
You’ll look at his massive feet,
look at the trail of stuffed animals leading into the hallway,
and accept reality:
A superhero is in your living room right now.
So you forget the gardening. You ignore the toys.
And you get on the floor.
7/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
it bled in again,
choking the lights to a dull gray—
predictably lame,
with broken teeth
to gnaw frayed scabs
like grinding old gum.
the silence roaring like white noise,
crawling through me,
carving old words into my stomach,
predictably lame syllables
hissing like searing wounds.
until—predictably lame—
stupid tears burst forth
stealing my breath
reminding me:
doing nothing gets nothing.
so do nothing again
and get nothing again—
but I am so damn tired
of choking on it.
6/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
one time i stood
under a flowering pear tree
in my wild backyard
and thought, this is good.
it was warm
and i’d just finished nursing my baby girl.
she heavy-slept in a sling
on my freckled chest.
her hair was red
and my feet were bare.
one time i stood
on a street in london
in my doc martens
and thought, this is good.
it was warm
and i’d just toured buckingham palace
pretending i belonged.
steaming tea, a double-decker bus.
my dress was red
and my socks were yellow.
one time i stood
all alone
in my choked bedroom—
the air was hot,
the bed unmade—
a shadow stretched
over drifts of laundry
left to fold.
my face was red,
the pen denting my thumb,
and i thought,
is this good?
5/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
freedom used to be yellow.
simple like holding my grandmother’s hand
in the church pews on sunday.
simple like the ribbons we tied
around the thick bark of the trees,
waiting for the soldiers to come home.
maybe that is why i still like parades.
the heavy hooves of the horses,
the bright brass of marching bands,
the gleam of old cars,
bubbles floating in the summer air.
i want it to be yellow again.
but knowledge changes all the colors.
i cannot pretend anymore.
it does not mean what it used to.
some people choose the blindness of yellow.
some people see the truth.
4/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
sweet girl,
when those fast feet dance
outside the library
to music living inside your bones,
and my screen glows awake
to swallow the moment,
do you know
it’s the years i’m holding?
you, right now—
a bright flash of wild curly hair
saved for later.
you call out “gigi dance”
and I do,
because my tired body
wants to always remember
what it feels to move with you.
your small hand
guiding my heavier bones.
we play, talk, and say hi
to our oak tree,
but it’s when we sing together
and you press your head into my chest
before climbing into your big girl bed,
i feel the new weight
of your lengthening limbs.
3/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
cars zoom past to anywhere but
here, each carrying someone’s entire
world. bees swarm inside my chest,
heavy and frantic, a hum vibrating
beneath my ribs. only my finger
moves, pressing each letter
into my phone, like sitting
years ago in the sand, pushing
rocks down as far as they would go.
maybe if i press hard enough now
it will reach you. a little gift
from my hand to yours. a single bee
let loose across the distance. do you see
the sun cutting through the leaves
too? does the air taste like honey
there? i need everything to be okay,
for you, for us.
clouds streak white, smudges in pale blue.
buzzing slows to a quiet ache.
i just need to hear you say—
it’s all going to be okay.
one more thread for us.
2/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
lizards dart out of the bushes
every time I open the front door
rustling warnings when I don’t
need them. wrote the word
connection over and over within
lined pages of my green
goddess notebook, planning
return of self, for self, to others
or is it for others? today, tomorrow—
each day is another chance
for words to gather within
my apron pockets if only fingers
weren’t so tired. or
slippery. forgiveness given
when not asked for, makes arms
ache for something lost. no, never
was. illusions rustle whispering
here we go again, eat until full
this time. don’t worry about crumbs—
you don’t have to clean everything
everyone—
you can rustle too
whenever you want.
1/100
For the next 100 days, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day. I hope you’ll follow along.
Every year on my birthday, I write a poem. This year, I decided to pair those words with a series of self-portraits. I’m so grateful for this space and for everyone who stops by to read. If any of these words or images resonate with you, please let me know—I’d love to hear from you. I’m so glad you’re here.
Within my freckled chest lie
sheets of watercolor paper over
saturated and weak in the middle
where I pressed too hard, bending
into rainbow shapes. My hips
tell of this separation, of forty-nine
years of horses, dogs, babies, troubles
sat propped against bones, praying
understanding will expose fragmented
shadows, pockets of light. Tomorrow
another sunrise, pink fog touching
horizon, hot coffee sweetened just
right with words now said instead
of swallowed whole. White-crested waves
wake the birds, and the tide-pull aches
in every corner. See clouds
reflect upon the sand, soft starfish
clinging to crag-born rock, green flashes
flinty like my eyes. Look for it, keep tracing
thumb over back of hand. This time
next time
another time
all time.
an extension of eyes, me
weighted memory keeper, save
distortion or perspective, truth
what do you see, heal
step step step
click click click
breathe
Bridgette Tales 