all desire being only
the desire to exist

to survive and
to be fulfilled
are very different

change, movement
brings us toward desire
this movement is the only way
to be

toward and away
and toward again
ripples on the water’s surface,
waves break,
the advent of summer

all things from the earth
create and sustain
amidst change
is inevitable

why, then, is it also
so terrifying?


ravages of shame

all my life
i have worked
to believe
i am enough
to extricate myself
from the shadow
of inadequacy,
the ever present fear of failure
that lives in the constriction
of my body,
in the heat
that chars my insides
leaves me
restless and weak.

all my life
i have tried
to fill the need
that existed
before me–for you,
to be the thing
i thought you wanted
without ever asking
what i wanted,
who i was (am).

what would it mean
to know myself
outside of this demand–self
imposed as much as begotten, now?

what would it mean
to reject your desire
without rejecting you–
to accept only your love?
to remind you,
as i remind myself,
that i will not, cannot, ever be
the one who fills the hole inside you,
the dream of yourself
you left behind,
a dream i know too well,
having dreamt it all my life.

what would it mean
to awaken from this dream,
to shed the ravages its sleep
has thrust upon me,
to stretch my arms over my head
and claim myself


my mother, the earth
you tell me only truth
a thousand tiny vibrations
from the air
onto my skin
the musky scent of trees slowly
leaves piled under fresh dirt
moon half visible
only a silhouette
sky too early for night
you tell me truth
in the way you wrap yourself around
how your arms hold me
teach me what it feels like
to be
in this body
light as mist
tiptoeing across the pond
as the day breaks
free as wind
screaming its furious

monday morning

tea kettle
in the morning

silver, silver
my reflection
coming down,
down the stairs

in my head
a deep ache
somewhere inside
behind the wrinkle
of my forehead

find the tea–take a sip
find the moment
when the world takes shape again
the shape it takes in my reflection
eyes half open
sunlight stinging my lashes
as if to say,
it will be ok

i’m only human
that i feel each morning
feel and forget
the things i’ve dreamt
the worlds i could not keep

i’m only human
this is all i have

on fear and writing

what does it take
to write                        the thing

you’re most afraid of
I’m most afraid of?

is it courage
or something else?
something like… exhaustion

I am tired of living with things inside me
that I cannot–do not dare to–name

but even then, when a decision is made
how to find
the right space
for the feeling
to take form

how to decide
which part of the story
is worth telling
which story I want to–need to–tell

the thing, or things, I’m most afraid of…
some have quiet bodies
slither across the ground of my memory
out of sight
like serpents I cannot grasp
for fear the trembling
of my hands

some exist as shadows
at dusk
or in the early morning light
blending, fading
into and away
before I have the chance to ascertain their

how, then, to write
with letters rigid
as the crisp of March in New England
to write something
like formlessness
and to give it form
it must have
it must be named
it must be tamed
this something alive
in order for it to be