Out of Season

Don’t forgive me for what I am.

Nor turn away from what it is,
as I have done.

Let it melt upon your skin
like snow falling out of season.

1969 Vietnam ain't so far, is it?

What is your heart taut with, dear—  

what keeps you silent,  

looking over and past my shoulder  

as if assassins wait behind me,  

bows drawn and waiting  

almost as tensely as you,  

perched on edge,  

unsure what to do next?

Me too,  

me too. Perhaps there was no  

next step, no bend in the road—  

only the wet bog marsh  

where I imagine us lying,  

as you once did, patting mud  

around your young body for warmth.

You were somewhere  

you’ll never go again,  

when everyone was new  

and, for a moment,  

the world felt too big for you.

But now your back aches in bed.  

Your shoulder curves  

as you slump in the chair.  

You groan when you stand,  

filling the air with noise  

to remind us you are still alive,  

still fighting—

but no longer sure  

what for.

Vermilion Suite

“Today was like a shadow. It lurked behind me. It’s now gone forever. Why is it that time is such a difficult thing to befriend?”  

—Mary Casey

If you want to love a rose,
you must respect the thorns.
So I flirted with the limits of my humanity,
returned tired but unscathed—
by sunset, divinity, not myself.

Within my mind, I was seeking
a reset—a factory-reset button—
but instead, I only crossed a few wires:
double knots, twist, twist, twist.

The metal thread ends,
but there is no fresh start—
only adjustment, rearrangement,
as if the feng shui were off.

And just like that,
I might fit inside myself.

Wrong Again.

The hummingbirds came late  

this summer—so late we thought  

they might skip this year. But we were wrong.  

They dive-bomb each other,  

and butterflies flit under the hot, humid sun.

When my husband suddenly says things like,  

“You weren’t desperate when I met you.”

Yet just a day ago, I watched videos of myself then,  

and all I could think was how pathetic  

she seemed. Still—maybe it’s another time.  

I was wrong again.

Accepting your present situation as it is is an act of forgiving your past self for the choices she made.

It’s the beginning of building toward the future—making choices you’ll have to live with again.

a thousand letters

 maybe there is not hate, just grief over the love you had hoped to receive.