January 2012
16 posts
December 2011
6 posts
Vol. I
Torn scraps
covered
in scribbles
are becoming
the book of us.
History.
Non-fiction.
A working novella.
Our character
flaws
m a t e r i a l i z e
in ink
at my steady
hand.
Each phrase
packed
with a
m a g n i t u d e
of meaning.
Making immortal
moments
longings
and unresolve.
The plot
is thick
with
tenderness
and
heartbreak.
...
Mother.
I just want
to cry into
her shirt
like I used to.
Freshly laundered
and warm.
I just want
her to softly caress
my tangled hair
and whisper
in my ear,
“You’re going
to be okay.”
Over
and
over
and
over.
Until it
f i n a l l y
becomes
t r u e.
12.15.11
Heirloom.
“Just tell it
to keep
beating.”
The words of wisdom
that my mother
has given
to me
are rare.
But
these pearls
are part of
my inheritance
from her.
They hang
on a thin strand
next to my heart,
weary as it is.
But
with each
s l o w
labored pump
it still
beats
and beats
and beats.
As it should.
As it must.
12.18.11
