convos with my husband

“Something’s fucked up with my liver.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’ve never been this tired, and when I wake up in the morning…I see a lot of yellow.”

I don’t know whether he means it literally—as if yellowed vision is a symptom of liver failure—or whether he means that yellow things seem more apparent to him in the morning: the dish towel, the kitchen walls, the weak autumn light. A Jungian omen. The unconscious speaking through color.

Or maybe he means it as a metaphor. Every morning, everything he sees is bile-yellow, and that’s how he knows his liver is failing.

I believe he means all three at once. Our minds have always been that alike.

Maybe I’m silent too long, because he cuts through the cool autumn air with a soft, almost conversational, “You might be a widow soon.”

The word enters my mind and my body cannot feel them.

“That’s not funny,” I say.

But it isn’t only that it’s not funny. It’s that the possibility is always there, taking up too much space.

Rinsing the dishes: Paul is going to die.

Applying SPF to my face: I will have to figure out how to sell his motorcycle.

Giving the dogs their pills: Arrangements will have to be made in Indiana.

Answering an email: I can call the neighbor who gave me a book. She would help me. She isn’t working. I could pay her.

Turning off the light above the stove: Paul is going to die.

This is how I spend the mornings: doing ordinary things and rehearsing the practical shape of his absence.

Perhaps when I wake up in the morning…I see a lot of black.

Our minds have always been that alike.

this reminds me of the time you said "I love you" while I was puking Passion Fruit flavored Smirnoff into a bush

It took four years of living here  

to discover passion fruit  

growing wild in the backyard—  

a discovery I owe,  

credit where credit is due,  

to this abused dog I adopted,  

some sort of scavenger savant—  

probably how she survived outside  

until the dog catchers caught her.  

How long she lasted, I don’t know,  

only that it was hard.  

And I’m taking a bite  

of the fruit, praying  

it doesn’t make me sick.  

It tastes like some flavored vodka.  

I can recall the taste and price  

but not the name.  

And then I remember you saying  

that if you were ever homeless,  

you’d make it out.  

You’d steal clothes from stores,  

bathe in lakes,  

get a job—any job—  

you could do it.  

I admired how assured you were  

when, just a few months younger,  

I wasn’t sure I would survive graduation.  

And the dog finds another fruit,  

and I believe she could have survived  

without me, or anyone, for years,  

when suddenly—  

lightning-fast—  

I’m struck by the thought:  

Maybe this tiny, terrorizing terrier  

is you, incarnated—  

the irrational thought I’ve had  

about every animal that’s entered my life  

since you died.  

But eventually, as with all the others,  

I realize it is only the lingering remnant  

of my own compassion,  

reminding me  

of your open, flowing, tender heart.  

And somehow, I believe  

that no matter what, I will be okay.  

I have already survived  

losing you.  

And then I wonder,  

as the fruit glistens in the sun,  

as black lips are licked  

and dark eyes stare,  

whether I should share.  

I Google: Can dogs have passion fruit?

No.  

It’s toxic.  

Oh well.  

Perhaps this isn’t survival,  

not instinct,  

but a mysterious gift.  

And I thank her  

and you.

supplication/ˌsəpləˈkāSHən/

“Woman must not be awed by that which has been built up around her; she must reverence that woman in her which struggles for expression.”

—Margaret Sanger

Tomorrow I turn 39.

I don’t feel much about it, which is strange. Society builds up turning 30 and turning 40 as huge milestones, so I expected to feel something—some shift or revelation. But I mostly feel uneventful.

And maybe, in a passive way, it is getting to me. I’ve been balls-deep in all my favorite vices, and in increasingly complicated, strange, and uncomfortable ways.

Sometimes I can step back and see that I’m not building, creating, or making the life I want. I’m phoning it in, then diverting myself by consuming more and more. And slowly, it’s consuming me, too.

I want to snap out of it. I want to get back into my body, return to the happy, healthy habits in which I thrive, and become more like the person I’d like to be. But I’m apathetic. I’m not really motivated to try. Like, at all.

I was flipping through old journal entries, and not that long ago I wrote: “Don’t wait for the feeling before taking action. Take action, and the feeling will come after.”

I know this. I know I get stuck waiting for the feeling—for motivation, inspiration, or desire—before I take action. But I also know that I have to act first. The feeling comes later.

Still, maybe it isn’t so rotten, awful, or bad to take a big ol’ break from trying. A couple of bare-minimum months won’t kill anyone. Time is relative. A month can feel like a year, and this year has felt like some strange, gooey purgatory.

I still have a year to become the forty-something I’ve always envisioned.

 be the woman who would attract what you want.

The Spins

Cataract-clouded eyes can’t see  

a round, pale ass—perfect  

and bare at night. Even a hundred tarot pulls  

and a “real Jamaican shaman” on Etsy  

couldn’t have seen that, in 2026,  

I’d have a favorite porn star—  

nor that he’d be a man—  

and not even care as I click “Follow”  

on Instagram. If someone is  

scrolling through my follows,  

lucky me: see what I like?

No horoscope saw that  

I would put a dog to sleep,  

then adopt another less than twenty-four hours later,  

or that THC deficiency is probably  

a real condition, based on conditioning.

Maybe Iran should have a nuke.  

I don’t really know much about anything,  

but maybe my forties will be wilder  

than my twenties and thirties combined.

Return to Sender

The sky was darkening  

as a crossover made a rolling stop—  

the kind I associate with California,  

despite never having been there—  

as I opened the mailbox.

I’ve been told  

I can fuck up a wet dream  

and I can fuck up a cup of coffee,  

both meaning that I  

can ruin the easiest and best things  

in life—or so I assume—  

since I didn’t really ask what they meant  

by what they said.

I just listened and absorbed,  

contemplated how  

I could be more fun, lighter, better,  

never once considering the source.

Grey Rock.

A rock—
any shape, any size.

Kick it a little
every day.

It may take many days,
but eventually
it becomes a sphere:

smooth, round,
ground into a pleasing
hand-feel.

I want to be like that.

The Internet will say,
no matter the problem,
that you are the problem—
or your spouse is—
depending on how you skewed
the story—

and the only solution
is to leave.

But maybe we’re just bumpy.
Lumpy. Misshapen.

Maybe conflict is what wears down
the sharp edges.

Is leaving, then,
and moving on to the next guy
really the only option?

Someone commented:

“Why ex-husband-shaped
if not ex-husband?”

What shape is the next guy, ma’am?

Perfect and polished—
a cushion-cut diamond,
a god among men,
Jesus in Carhartts,
Buddha with an ironic
hipster moustache?

No.

Probably some broken boy
wanting love.

Because if he didn’t,
he wouldn’t be on the apps.

Just like she’s a broken girl
wanting love.

Because if she didn’t,
she wouldn’t be on the apps.

We are all broken people.
Mere mortals.

And I was naïve
to believe a woman
was different by default.

My friend keeps saying,

“I wish I was a lesbian,”

after each new man.

I laugh.

“I hear you.”

Because I don’t really know
what the fuck I am—
or what I want to be.

Strangely, it might be this:

my life as it is.

Is this contentment?

A perfectly balanced,
nourishing meal
with not a dab of spice.

I shall live long
and be strong.

Is that not enough?

My ancestors were wise
not to want more:

food,
a roof,

and God.

Praise be—
Lord up in heaven—
we wake another day
to toil,

eat,

sleep,

and wake another day.

Now Hinge is advertising
double-date options.

How many minutes
until that feature
was used for orgies?

Five, I’m guessing.

The news keeps claiming
AI will kill humanity,
comparing it to the Terminator.

I joke with my husband:

“AI should shut up
and nut up.”

We agree:

less talk,
more action.

If you’re going to kill us,
do it soon.

Swift—
Taylor Swift—
Swift.

Kick the rock down the road
and let the rough edges smooth.

Sandpaper:

rough against rough
makes smooth.

Make me smooth enough
to grace a lover’s cheek.

Let us roll down hills,
get stuck in ditches,
rest for a minute—

not wanting a fucking thing
for five minutes.

Not a man.
Not a like.
Not a comment.
Not advice.
Not another kick.
Not a Hinge orgy.
Not even a dash of Mrs. Dash.

Just rest.