another year of life

Spinning,
I feel new moon, old moon
dying, dying, dead.

oof! there it went.

Hark the Harold! anxiety sings
recused to silence, deafeningly mad,
traveling blindly through my skin job
circuit overload, overlord, oh my lord
I didn't know what a lie it's been.

O Holy Night!

death belay

The day my mom died,
my life stopped being my own.
Each movement, breath, nuance
of my being
is her doing.

Two years now
it is still hers.
My house is built on her foundation
and it is her windows that I open
and her air that my lungs breathe and
her purse I tuck my money into.
Her hands type these words.
I swear my eyes cry her tears.

Suddenly and violently,
my life was not my own, but
just a continuation of hers;
as it always has been,
since my birth.
It was in her death;
I knew it.

my how things change

This weekend the dog pissed on the yoga mat,
which sprawled before the litter box
in my vain attempts to trap paw trailings.
I threw that mat out.
It is almost like, five years ago
that yoga mat wasn't a gift from you and
it was not wrapped below the Christmas tree
not some meager poor husband gift offering
and almost, just almost,
I thought about feeling a smidge guilty
now that I can easily buy new mats
every other day if I want and
I threw that one out
with it's shit and decay.