Monthly Archives: September 2015


The coffee is never quite as warm
as I would like it to be,
but I accept its lukewarm comfort.

I wish that here were there
and there were here,
but here is also fine, I suppose.

I want to read in silence
and move to raucous music —
anything but being still,
though still is not a bad state of being.

I don’t look back
because that path bores me,
and while I am content with now,
I’m anxious for when.

There’s never enough sleep,
although I can’t say I’m tired.

There’s never enough
and too much
of any and all of it.


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Je suis prest.

The repetitive movement
becomes its own form
of meditation.

The creak of age,
the slide of plastic
on metal
the splash,
the flow,
the fluidity of water.

I imagine
covering the distance,
willing my vessel to move
while my world stays constant.



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Dream Home

I still remember the floor plan.
It’s amazing what a small child remembers.

In the front door.
Ahead: the steps I fell down once
when my feet were still wet from a bath.
(I was fine, but startled.)

Left: Dad’s desk and open space,
a space for a video game called Socrates.
A space for tiny electric guitars one Christmas.
A space for Pretty Pretty Princesses.

Right from the office: an exercise room.
One of those weird, many-purposed
early 90’s cardio machines.
I asked Mom once what would happen
if I worked out while I was eating a banana,
and she said I’d probably make myself sick.

Circle right into the kitchen.
Where flour covered every single surface,
where someone cut their hand
trying to chip away at a giant block of ice
made out of red punch,
where the benches doubled as storage space.

Out the kitchen and past the front hallway —
bathroom door and cupboard left,
basement door right —
the living room straight ahead.
The home to games of lava,
of bouncing against the back cushions of the couch,
of flicking popsicle sticks behind the entertainment center.

Out back:
chicken wire to keep the twins from slipping out
between the boards of the fence.
A sandbox (I ate some once)
and a covered playhouse where we tried to summon rain.
The above-ground pool where,
if we had enough people circling the outside,
we could make a whirlpool.

Back inside:
slide down the basement steps
with legs trapped inside a pillow case,
thud-thud-thud-thud-thuding all the way down,
a sharp turn right at the bottom onto red plaid carpeting
where you could draw with chalk and then pat it away.
A pool table we ruined with potion,
a game where you had to guess what the smell was,
the original Nintendo for the original Zelda during the original layoff.

Then up, up, up the stairs
to my bedroom.
Where we had sleepovers
even though we all lived in the same house.
Where I stored leftover pizza
on the ledge in my closet
(or maybe it was under the bed)
and made myself sick on it every other Friday.
Where I broke two snowglobes —
one in the bathroom when I dropped it,
and one while throwing a faberge egg onto my bed
while I was packing.

Packing up to move away.
Moving first to one home and then another,
more floor plans I remember,
but both so much different than this one —
the first one I remember.

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There is a moment in the movement —
about two-thirds of the way through —
when I question my decision
to do this one alone.
To try when no one is spotting me.
To move forward when there is
no form of safety net.

It is in this What If moment
that I can choose:
to harden my resolve or let it crumble,
to push through my decision
or to bail under the weight of it,
to do it or not.

It is in this Damnit moment
that I decide:

It is in the next moment —
the Yes!, the Did it!, the Phew! moment —
that I remember:
this is about more than just my body,
my strength, my stamina.
It’s about my mind.

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