divorced the devil

1 Peter 5:8 says, "Be sober-minded; be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour."

The devil never roared,

but mewed like a kitten,

trapped in a tree.

I brought him inside,

telling my friends,

"He seems nice and in need."

I fed him, and kissed him,  

and tucked him in my bed.  

And he spoke to convey

the lie that he was  

so much better than me.  

Over time, I began to believe.

Yes, it wasn’t a roar,

but my own whisper:

"He seems so small,

so frail, like he needs me."

Now that he’s dead,

I see he really did need me.

older woman friend

We feel like peers till I remember.  

I was old enough to be fuckin' when  

you were only four. Or so I thought.  

Now I wonder if I was too young.  

My favorite artist’s career began  

the years before you were born,  

just as I had already visited  

an inmate, patted down by guards,  

rushed through metal detectors,  

seen as a potential criminal.  

It wasn’t until you were a preteen  

that I crossed lines into felonies.  

Now I am the older woman friend,  

advocating the straight and narrow,  

though I rarely followed it myself,  

hoping you'll fare better than I.  

But if you’re anything like me,  

you’ll wear blinders and charge ahead.  

Full circle, I understand what all those  

older women friends of mine were feeling

—Maybe living it is the only way to learn.

Barbie's Malibu Dream home has a mortgage payment too

Remember back in the day when all I wished

Was for a day far off into the future,

Aloof as a cloud—a day like today—when

I have everything I ever thought I wanted.

But all my blessings now appear as responsibilities,

Tugging at my time like an impatient child

Tugs her mother's sleeve, and I sigh

As if this isn’t the apple of my eye,

As if I didn’t pray for this,

As if I’d be biding my time in any other way,

As if living a good life 

Just isn't worth all the work I put in.

time and place

How I spent a third birthday in this place

I knew nothing of four years ago.

A trilogy of shifting sands,

compacted, still hard and unknown.

Yet I celebrate by

visiting those new places

from my first year,

avoided the second,

now ready for a fresh restart.

Maybe this time, I’ll get it right.

would you shirk away from me?

To know that nothing in my life
is meaningless. Like my outfit today.

It’s all threads weaving my cells together.

These pants, remnants of my dead friend,

just 14 years since new. This sweatshirt—
my dead mom's, older than I am.
These socks, the first name-brand pair
I ever owned, bought at Costco.
A phone filled with numbers I’ll never call.
Eyeglasses that reflect a me I have not yet been,
crafted, it seems, by a celeb
who shares this girl’s name. 

Even these shoes. A brand my favorite singer

used to wear two, no three, decades ago.

I don't do aesthetic or fashion or trends.

I only live my history over and over again.

37

37 years old.

Long is my childhood...

I'm still in it.

birthday

"Happy Birthday"

Tyrone says to me,  

then to you,  

"She's a Libra—  

that means she’s good."  

But I’m too busy,  

on my knees,  

petting his spaniel,  

too caught up to correct.

Only half good.

Then we head  

to the movies,  

my purse filled  

with sneaked-in candy,  

because no matter my age,  

some things never change.

There's a little girl

always inside me

and it's she

who is up to no good.

slightly stupid waves

When rough waters grow choppy,

float like a cork

until you find shore.

A beach or riverbank—

it’s all the same,

a shift in perspective

that begins with you.

At 37, I'm either young

or old, depending

on how long I live.

That doesn't really matter.

What matters is that

I’m here,

alive at 37

today.

chicago

This is how I won't remember us:  

You smoking a cigar in Chicago  

And me burning at both ends  

Of a candle that never depletes.  

Or you yelling Google searches  

Into your phone in public  

While I smile at strangers  

Looking at us.  

Or you disappointed in a hotel again  

For not living up to a place  

You stayed in the '80s  

And me unsure if it’s  

Your memory or the decade  

To blame. Or it’s you,  

On the first day, frustrated  

That it didn't live up to what you built  

In your head. And me knowing  

On the second day, you'll be tired  

And sick. Somehow, 

I will forget all these details,  

Only remember how, for a few days,  

We got away. We were together.

I will talk about that for a couple of years

to anyone who will listen.

reckless and feckless

Dressed in a bottle

Made of one-way glass,

So I see everyone

and they only

see themselves.

Would you believe

this is by my own design?

I must confess sometimes I fantasize the world will fall in love with my brain

So we’re in agreement:  

An MBA makes the most sense—  

For me, for now.  

A practical, a smart choice.  

But inside, I’m daydreaming  

Of poetry classes,  

Of a professor who recognizes  

My raw artistry—  

The 21st-century Emily Dickinson,  

Voice of a generation.

Blah. Blah. Blah.

Color in grandeur.

I’m whisked away to publishers,  

Then podcasts, then late-night shows.  

Critics would be horrified  

By my interviews—  

Sipping a pint of cow's milk 

Or sweet tea,  

Shooting a BB gun at the opossum  

Raiding my garden.  

      "It only hurts them. 

       Doesn't break the skin.

       But he'll remember me."
How Hunter S. Thompson!

But fans would be enamored— 

My feral cat rescues,

My antics,

And the part-time job  

At Home Depot

Even though I have

A cult following.

The biggest fans

Have adopted a cat

And bought a hammer

I happily sign

If bought from me—

The closest they will get

To owning a piece of me.

How Hemingway!

Someday,  

I’d die, yet still be  

Some freshman's favorite poet— 

They're in the hipster college phase.

But then I remember:  

If I could’ve, I would’ve  

By now. Afterall,  I set goals  

And reach them. Did you know  

I’m getting an MBA?  

It just makes sense—  

For me, for now.  

A practical, smart choice.  

every day is house-magic with you

When your sister said,  

"Girl, he really loooooooooves you,"  

over sixty years old yet bench pressing  

the word 'love'  

like it weighed 300 lbs.  

I could hear it grunt in the corner,  

making all the girls at the gym  

uncomfortable,  

but I knew it was different for you.

Now, years later,  

I’m in the shower, smoking weed—  

my favorite place to unwind

After a long day of chores and errands.

I enter tired and dirty;  

I come out high and clean.  

For you. For our home.  

These small chores tied with a bow  

to love: feeding kittens,  

yard work, buying chairs,  

eating bread, cleaning up,  

going to bed—

to wake in the morning  

and practice our love ritual,  

another day together.

That's how you love me;

When you say,

"Babe, let's get Olive Garden."

Goosebumps.

The fan's chill brushes her arm,

shivering, she draws one more blanket

over and under.

Her response,

so natural—

like waves lapping at the shore,

kittens lapping at milk,

and you lapping at her neck.

Your response,
so natural—
like goosebumps rising
in the middle of the night.

ginger ale

Pop open another ginger ale—

Golden and bright,

Effervescent like high school love,

Friendship paraded on the beach—

You in long shorts and bikini top,

While I can’t recall what I wore,

Or if I was even there,

Because my memory is you,

Only you.

We will never be as young

As we were then.

And you will never grow old

As I will. As I will

Keep a list of everything new

You would have loved

If you had not died and 

I drink it in

To soothe my aching heart

Like ginger ale.

this side of town

A man and woman,

drunk,

arguing by the roadside,

while the vast world

continues around them,

unconcerned.

I’m like a baby squirrel

in a tree with limbs down,

watching nosy neighbors,

dreaming of escape—

somewhere nearby,

yet still in that big, wide world.

I won't fall!

Watch me as I land.

things written on my hand (8/15/24- 9/17/2024)

vet

groomer

watermelon

put together chair

hummingbird 

laundry

patch

meeting

watermelon

patch

steak 
roast
glove box

trash

pizza

steaks

pineapple

WED WFH

pto

blink

plates

Chen Budget

Oct. 12-31st

ride or die

For My Friend Justine on Her Birthday.

As daffodils unfurl,  

with both inner and outer petals,  

you expand. I have been  

privileged to witness  

flashes of your radiant,  

golden soul grow in this lifetime.

A treasured gift I hold dear.

So my loyalty to you is like that  

of wise guys, mobsters,  

raised together since boyhood—  

for no matter what happens,  

I’ll charge in with guns  

blazing to defend you. At times,  

all I had was the hope you knew  

this is how I’ve always felt.

Happy birthday, my sweet friend.

Keep growing. Keep going.

say less

At first, awe.

Then, yay?

Finally, ow!

solar plexus

sour stomach

Ballin' halfway from the airport,

where I sent my soldier to scout

the life we will build.

But now, only I, my sour stomach,

and choppy lungs remain.

We will build a castle,

a mansion, a legacy,

but for now,

I’m crying and drinking

Pepto-Bismol.

peppermint wheels

First sick day in a year,  

The room exhales me,  

Breathing me in, humid,  

Like a gilded pair of lungs.  

Near billowing sheets where I lie,  

A bucket, once held to my chest,  

Now only contains my vomit,  

All I had to offer.  

My childhood illnesses linger nearby,

As my dead mother’s distant voice  

Accusing me of faking again.

As if, after a lifetime of trying to get out,

I’d lie to stay in. A felony for a penny gained.  

How many truths of childhood were false?  

A single serving of sugar,  

With a fable on the packet,  

A story sweetened with a teaspoon,  

Spinning peppermint till stripes fade.  

Returned to youth and

The stories I was told,  

Like bricks, built a wall in my chest,  

Proclaiming, "Yes, this is who you are, child."  

Like Tibetan monks who vomit on command,  

Why not a nine-year-old girl?

Yes, for mom, vomit could be faked.

If this is how her brain worked,

What she believed, or an easier

Excuse to an inconvenient child,

I will never know. I will die not knowing.

Was I faking then?  

Am I faking now?  

Have I ever faked?

Questions I can’t answer  

As I email my boss.  

Gone are the days  

Of wondering if I sounded sick enough.  

Crumbling mortar—  

If even one brick is false,  

One story just a tale,  

Tear down the wall, start again,

Build from what I choose,  

For if I am to be made of lies,  

Let them be my own.

perfume

End of Summer Came on the Wind

As the wind rustles through the leaves,  

like a thousand mice scurrying in the trees,  

I say, “It feels like the first autumn breeze.”  

But he replies, “No, it’s the wind before a summer rain.”  

That evening, as I sipped sweet tea

from a highball glass, I felt the shift—  

summer's end, undeniable,

when the local news reported 

three child drownings this summer.  
Not drownings “so far,” but this summer.

This summer. This number. This final word.
Reported as if all future drownings belong to another time—
to the new season.
All drownings from now on
will be Fall’s dead children.