Monthly Archives: May 2015


I’ve rarely found Him in the buildings
where His statues live.

Where I see Him, hear Him,
taste Him, feel Him,
is outside the structures built by men.
He’s the crashing of the ocean waves
on the rocks at the edge of the bay.
He’s the wind that rustles the trees
and blows my skirt against my legs.
He’s the song of birds,
the persistent buzz of insects in the evening.
He’s the salt and water taste
of rain that hits closed lips,
of snow falling in open mouths.
He’s the glare of a big hot sun
and the gentle glow of a new moon.
He’s in the words
of those who break my heart
and those who make it full to bursting.

He’s not in any
specific universe.
He’s in
the universal specifics


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Peter Parker

he looks at me
like he doesn’t know
what to do with me.
It’s not exasperation —
at least I don’t think it is.
I like to imagine it’s more akin
to the internal struggle
a superhero must have
when he’s deciding
whether or not
to admit his true identity.
In those moments,
I do my best
to look at him in such a way
that he’ll know beyond a doubt
it’s okay to tell me
whatever truth he’s mulling over.
That it’ll always be okay
to tell me.

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Double Helix

My morning routine is his.
Early to rise.
Coffee to go.
Periodic refills
from his aged, dented thermos,
reading the day’s news
before work starts.

My life view is hers.
The early rise gives me time
to sip the coffee
and watch the world.
To listen, be silent, be still.
To learn whatever lessons
the world is ready to teach me today.

The three of us
have our differences.
But in all the ways that matter,
we’re one and the same —
the strongest
of unbreakable bonds.

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Last year, I made plants grow.

Deer kept eating the pepper plants
when I wasn’t home,
but I kept watering them anyway.

I grew too much cilantro —
sometimes I drank cilantro-flavored water
to justify the surplus.

I cut the chives too short
the first time I used them —
they didn’t grow but didn’t brown either.

Everything grew in its proper pot
for the couple of months
that Cleveland weather allowed.

But roots can only get so strong
in shallow pots.

I’d like some land,
some seeds, some time
to let roots take
and make trees grow.

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Somebody Else’s Sky

He looked down
at the picture of her.
She was smiling
and waving
and looking
so genuinely happy.

He smiled back at her,
but his vision blurred
when he remembered
he hadn’t been the one
holding the camera.

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A one-year-old
lives in my subconscious.

Most of the time,
she’s idly rolling
a glittery gold bouncy ball
back and forth between her hands,
hardly paying attention to me
except for once a year
when I pay someone
to tell me that all my parts
are in working order.

On that day, she looks at me
like she’s expecting something —
more bad news, more needles,
more imbalance.

On that day, I look at her
and wait for someone to tell me
she isn’t there.
That no child is or will be.

And then that one-year-old and I —
we’ll hold each other and cry.


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