Poetry

I go through weeks like I do sheets of paper, or hair ties, or poems. 

I use them all up but I can't remember what I wrote. 

Years are like that too. Someone asks what I did last Monday 

Words slip through my fingertips

every so often.

Experiences in foreign countries,

meeting new people, and even falling in love—

all boiled into delusion.

They tell me their stories

All the fun here and there

They tell me their lessons

What they chose to hear

They tell me their worries

The year is ending

without asking if I’m ready.

It folds itself away

like a letter I never finished writing—

corners bent,

ink smudged with things I didn’t say out loud.

The two of them sit on the porch

basking in the sunlight

letting their toes explore the first

frost-bitten mud of spring

Talking about life and death and sex

and little Mika's school play

Fear. Fear is relentless. 

It never stops taking.

It depletes your joy, and takes away from your life.

It’s a constant strife.

Fear. 

December already?

That's what everyone else says.

People ask us at the end 

of every year

to reflect on these last twelve months

that have changed us.

And I honestly never know

“Is that what you’re wearing”

She says

Not as a question

But a judgment

A cold declaration

That I’m doing something wrong

Many years have passed 

Wearing away at my soul

Yet I will never forget

Those 2020 backyard nights we spent 

Collecting acorns and playing tag under sunset skies

Tonight, stars are falling,

Over Chicago, New England, Texas,

From angry east to angry west,

Dark cars: hearses that we don't call hearses

Roll silently towards lively, warm houses,

Fire is like a person. You can change how it looks but it's still the same. 

You can color your hair, pierce your ears or change your clothes, but you're still the same person.

what do the wings write, light in the sky

tales told to the whistling, empty guy

stellar moon that turns eyes hibiscus pink

darling dark hair, shining star, who slips his hand away in the morning