the white in the white

heading south
i see her approaching
by borrowed bicycle
white earbuds white capri pants
white breezy bob
pedaling to the rhythm section of her chin to teeth
to florescent gum
“good morning”
a smile
a little girl’s hopefulness
an old woman’s modest satisfaction of self
white teeth unabashed

i needed that
to run faster to run with a sure foot
a sure stride a sure breath
a soft moment
i. am. small.
world. feels. big.
therefore i must fit.
i do fit.
if the trying ceases to try so fucking much
entangled in a delayed reaction wishing to have returned all of her sentiments
wasted time spent eternally cocooned
wasted time spent internalizing
that smile

heart empty heart beating
body in motion tarrying emotion
mind empty mind beating
time has such conviction

heading north
i see her approaching
my foot stride breath offer this moment
she is delighted to find that my smile matches her own
eye contact
“good morning”
kindred little girls kindred old women
white teeth

we three

they rest on the surface of me
granting my entry into the most sacred of places
a surprising density with neither mass nor saturation
i wake every day to watch them settle in
more and more and more please more
one a tight fold into contemplation
two a delicate containment bursting about the skin
three an assertive grip at its most vulnerable expression
i am strengthened by the safety you have given me
you are my anchor in the tonle sap and throughout the dry season
my botanical acolyte
my parents

ruth less

she is
an arid word she’d never thought to use herself
on behalf of herself
not in this timeline
a word she’d used often
in the pasts of passing

how is she
she wonders
how has she deemed herself the hunter
while assuming a position of prey
well she must have feltbeenseen
she decides

a radical breeder of choice
her surroundings provide few outs and far ins between
each crippling to a savage end

has she killed herself on repeat
she ponders

the spear has dulled
yet it pierces nonetheless
while she bleeds muchthemore

a hickory syrup of muted acceptance

lessons unlearned until
no escape
no endurance
she traces the sap
in search of injuries
to find

elbows traverse the chest
an embrace of
she shovels the fever of her pulse
knuckle fist knuckle nail

breathing her own breath
she counts
she counts


there’s no such thing as a perfectplace.
no hardwood floor without that one exposed nail head
no bookshelf full of novels that evoke only layered laughter
no pantry stocked with just peanut butter pistachios and chili chocolate
yet i wait for that place
socks on hammer in hand
a few unlikely library books on hold
sun dried apricots and fresh ambrosia apples.
i make this place happen
by writing here
this is my fuckingplace.

no title

but for my poppa’s clock
now set to spring
climbing up
climbing out of myself
burrowing into an unidentifiable comfort
present most times of the day
though imperceivable during the dour hours of dreams
such concentration
exhaling any hesitation to trust myself
come the stroke of light

you open the door

existence becomes
a soft lens
a distant campfire
a weak cup of tea
no less real when we are
chest to spine
always simple
always being
always needing more words for
an endless launch
into shared egotism

this is

the kind of day

my jaw bone gnashes on an invisible feast
craving to create
craving to feast on the creation

but with instrument missing from his stand
and sight taking the vacation i was meant to have

i am stripped

though a happy heart acts as an industrial grade furnace
this chill ripples beneath the skin in blues and slates
a continent’s distance within
the disparity between spectral beauty and simple pain

away with starvation
skeletal clenching
stomach is full on the

search and ..

she had forgotten why she’d even driven west this morning
so she turned herself about and headed east
she had forgotten why she parked the car
at this dead end
so she fled the scene in an alarming ascent leaving
half of herself at the avocado farm part way up the ridge
while the other half forged ahead to the horse springs

each overlook was a chance to observe her abandoned self
at a helicopter’s height
a chance to see
the she that was no longer her

those who loved and searched for her
couldn’t possibly love this her
and now those very same couldn’t possibly love that other her
who was even who

her kin
one speechless one furious
searching half body half mind themselves
fully helpless
choosing to never find either of the hers
and certainly not
the theirs