If I die at the same age as my mother...

I have just 20 more years.

Excuse Me While I Google That

How did they do it?

All of my ancestors?

I don’t mean that in a glib way.

I mean—

I was taught that humans are here

because of millions of years of evolution.

They survived not knowing how to make fire,

then learned to cook,

built shelters,

invented government...

And I’m one of them.

I’m human.

But while they were literally surviving—

life or death—

creating everything I get to use today—

electricity, running water, medicine—

Alexander the Great. Catherine the Great.

Cyrus the Great—

surely there were still people

who just... weren’t great.

Like some slave building a pyramid,

or an indentured servant

with five more years of hard labor

till freedom.

You know—those types.

Probably my people.

So how did they do it?

How did they get through

one crummy day at a time—

long enough

to eventually make me?

It had to be something like faith.

(My God. What horrors.)

Today I didn’t know something,

so I pulled out my phone,

typed it in,

and got the answer. Just like that.

My ancestors probably wondered too.

But they didn’t need it to be right.

They just made something up

and moved on.

It didn’t have to be true.

It just had to be theirs.

Excuse me while I search

Gwyneth Paltrow's age.
I just need to know.

God will set the table.

Whatever happens in the future, I will be ready for it by the time it happens. Whatever happens in the future, I will be ready for it by the time it happens. Whatever happens in the future, I will be ready for it by the time it happens. Whatever happens in the future, I will be ready for it by the time it happens. Whatever happens in the future, I will be ready for it by the time it happens. Whatever happens in the future, I will be ready for it by the time it happens. 

R’lyeh Dreams

“The more he withdrew from the world about him, the more wonderful became his dreams; and it would have been quite futile to try to describe them on paper.”
― H.P. Lovecraft, The Call of Cthulhu

Heated nights devour my mind—
hexagonal dreams, terrors.
If I believe it, my sheets are wet
with sweat. I can’t remember
anything. Not today, not last night,
not yesterday—not who I am
anymore. The landscape, jagged
like distant, abandoned roads
you and I will not see—not for lack of want,
but lack of access. What do I want?
My cuticles crack and bleed—
and even when they heal,
they bleed again.
My teeth and nails slowly pick,
peel, and prod
at an edge that expands—
ever so—expands like the universe,
expands like my nervous:
vast and tumultuous,
too much for my mind
to comprehend. I’ve seen the ocean
and the moon—in real life, in photos—
but I’ll never know
how small I truly am.
Still, it weighs on me.

Perhaps you just need to sit in the sun and drink cold peppermint tea. It worked for me.

Sometimes the sun slips behind a cloud,
the blazing heat softens—
the light dims.

When exactly did we invent
outside and inside?
Before buildings, wasn’t everything
just outdoors?
Surely the door
came before we split the world
into indoor and outdoor.
Instead of "Where are you?"
ask me, which side of the door
I am on. I'm outside. I'm outdoors.

Where am I,
if not a handful of words—
made by men
long before me,
words given to me
to name these spaces?

Words made up—
maybe I can make words, too.

Maybe that cloud
is a ceiling—maybe I’m sheltered.
Maybe this herb is medicine—
maybe this isn’t illness,
but a kind of life—
like the sun
slipping behind a cloud.
Darkness can be nice.

Maybe I am spiraling, circling,
ovaling—through shapes
unnamed yet—
just ways to move.

Maybe life—the shadow—
was reprieve after all.
Maybe what we’ve called bad,
what we’ve called broken,
is simply life
doing what life does.

If it is right, it can be done. If it is wrong, it can be done without.

Where is the line?
It once was bold—

beautiful, prominent,
obvious.

Now it’s seafoam,
curdling at the edge
then retreating. Not

a shifting goalpost—
still a kind of marker—
but not this.
This is no marker,

just the transient
white of bubbles:
within, outside,
upon, beneath

me.

built different

"That's the problem with these dogs." The vet makes a gesture that suggests he’s not just talking about the two in the room with us, but all dogs.

"They're pack animals. They’ll stick with the group no matter what. Keep going until they just… can’t. They’ll be in unbearable pain, and still keep up like nothing’s wrong."

He pauses.

"That’s the first problem—they look fine. They evolved that way. Move with the pack, hide the limp, fake the energy. Until they slow down. And then, they die."

His voice softens.

"The second problem is time. It’s different for them. A year to us? That’s seven for them. A week feels like two months. So when something happens—

it feels sudden. But it’s not."

I glance at you.

Your eyes stay forward. Your jaw doesn’t move.

I reach for your leg—just gently.

You whisper, “I kind of expected this.”

I didn’t.

But now I see you differently—

faithful in your quiet way, 

like the oldest dog in the pack.

How you’ll keep up until you can’t.

How you’ll bear the weight without a word.

No grimace. No warning. Just go and go and go—

until you're gone.

We drive home in silence.

You shift in your seat—barely, but I notice.

The sun is low. The road blurs.

Still, you keep pace beside me.

Still pretending everything’s fine.

We will make it home tonight.

played mermaids with god

God had been hiding in a hotel pool

for 6 weeks when I found her. She

was waiting in the corner like a solemn

schoolgirl — was the teacher even looking?

Had anyone noticed God was missing?

You can imagine the shock to us both,

bumping into each other at a hotel pool.

An older woman sat in a chair beside 

the warm, blue water,

asked us where we were from.

I said, a five-minute drive. I live here.

Here? Why are you—she motions broadly—

here?!?

So God chimed in, "I'm from before time and after time.

The flowers bloom and die in accordance

with how I move and fold."

After this exchange, the older woman

on a chair beside the pool was a little less smug.

God then pinkie-promised me: if I don't tell where she is,

she'll teach me to float on my back after

she does this wicked cannonball.

So I waited in the splash zone.

MM

Buckle up—

I’m about to compare myself

to another classic historical figure.

I’d apologize, but by now,

you know how I am.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt had a cousin—

Margaret, sometimes called Daisy.

He didn’t share his pain, his fears,

his constant hurt

with anyone—not even Eleanor.

He never told her

how the leg braces burned—

but he told Margaret.

He called her My Margaret,

or MM for short.

She signed her letters YM—Your Margaret.

No one in his cabinet

understood why a cousin

was always on the train,

always in the White House—

but she was.

They planned a cabin

on a hill,

picnics,

a place where she would nurse him

until the end.

I know what you’re thinking:

God—did he fuck his cousin?

Well, probably. But not her.

His wife was a fifth cousin.

Margaret was a friend.

And their friendship—

they called it our grand voyage.

In a world at war,

they were ships

docking in each other’s

safe harbors.

Now—

as I cry,

and tell you all the things

I could never tell my husband—

know this:

You are MY Margaret.

You are the lighthouse.

The harbor.

The life vest keeping me afloat.

Margaret once wrote:

Most friendships begin

with a handshake.

Many never go beyond that.

But we—

our voyage—

went straight

into the deepest depths.

From the start.

Isn't that also us?

out to pasture.

we sit on the swing i assembled—
but you bought.
your knees ache in the quiet.

at night, your breath
stutters, shudders,
rattles the frame of our king bed.

i remember—long before me—
you rode a motorcycle
from indiana to florida,
drank with gangsters
in outlaw bars,
patched members vouching.
(hells angels wanted you,
but you chose freedom
over being tied down.)

you rode through texas,
where you’re no longer welcome.
(the sheriff? the feds?
who warned you away?)
you pawned gold from your body—
for gas, for food.

now i lie awake beside you,
your breath too fragile to ignore.
your body remembers the road—
but can’t bear it anymore.

by day, we tend tomatoes,
pet cats, watch the game,
debate mortgage rates—
a quieter risk.

could this compare to your past?
even if not—
your spine, your lungs, your hands
say the ride is over.

am i the tether
dragging you down
when you should be
straddling a machine,
riding the country,
selling the treasure
still dripping from your bones?

you were a stallion.
maybe the pasture suits you.

maybe this marriage
is the hospice you wanted—
the garden, your highway.
maybe you love it.
or maybe you don’t.

i can’t sleep,
not knowing.

from your sigh,
i know you can’t either.

i quit caring

when, oh when?
i can't recall.
sometime this week—
maybe.

no, not last week.
this week.
yes.

but when?
monday?
tuesday?
or was it
the weekend?

i can't recall.

i don't imagine
how you'd feel.
if you feel.

i don’t care.

i care
so little
i can’t even remember
when
i stopped caring.

someday

Someday you’ll die,
and someday—so will I.
Maybe not in that order,
but probably not today.

a body renews

it started brown and dry
like an old world god,
then turned deep maroon—
slippery slugs—
before fading
to a pretty light pink
into the night.

A King Rat

Sometimes in the nest,

rats curl close,

twitch and turn

until their tails

knot tight.

Squirrels do it too,

sometimes.

You might find

two, three—

even five—

bound together,

a single, snarling mess.

They call it a king rat.

Marriage to you

was like that.

No untangling,

no gentle parting—

only escape

through death.

Yours, mine,

or both.

I cut off my tail

so I might live.

For that, I hope,

in death—

you can—

forgive.

I probably should have been born at a time when orphan and rambunctious girls were sent to a convent to live with each other in the moutains

How I love the sun and the shade,

how I thrive in loose overalls, dirt under my nails—

tending beans, feeding animals,

and the hush. Blessed, holy hush.

I like to think the convents were full

of girls like us,

touching, curious,

not calling it sin or salvation—just

Sister, Sister—

after a day of prayer and sweat,

I want to lie beside you,

on top of you,

pressing our tired bodies together

in this straw-filled bed.

Our vow of silence won’t let us

voice even a trace of shame—

Just the quiet we cherish,

and the promise:

tomorrow,

more gardens,

more prayers.

We shall live here forever

till we die as good pilgrims—

buried next to each other

behind the chapel

where we met.

the Fourth

"The achievement of freedom from fear is a lifetime undertaking, one that can never be wholly completed... Only the self-deceived will claim perfect freedom from fear."

This city is killing my husband.

A broken tooth. A full week.

No fix in sight.

We’ll likely pony up the $275—

out of pocket, out of patience.

Still, we mutter wait and see.

Where is the government now?

Where is the thank you for your service

as we wait through

paper pushers on vacation,

each passing his case

from approver to approver,

until the VA green-lights

a payment to a dentist

who will then make

an appointment

to pull

the tooth.

It’s not lost on us—

three years ago,

we lived minutes

from a VA clinic.

He would’ve been

in and out

that same day.

For free.

It’s not lost on us—

we meant to move back.

We gave up halfway.

And now, it’s killing him.

And again,

we're trying to find a way.

I feel like a crumpled receipt

no one bothers to smooth out.

And still, secretly,

I pray—

that after the final stamp,

the final signature,

the tooth is pulled—

whoever held it up

chokes on a hotdog

and dies

on that very day.

Is it Happy Fourth of July

as I plan another soft meal

no one has to chew, but we

will eat all the same?

Careful What You Fish For

“Comparison is the thief of joy.” - Theodore Roosevelt

Dear little seahorse,
what makes you gasp
in these clear,
superficial shallows?

The sun shines
all the way to the bottom—
you, who have survived
the darkest depths,
should know how to breathe here.

But no—
you float in sunshine,
still sulk like it’s storming.
You say, “Not enough sun!”
“Not enough fun!”
“Adventure, please—extra splash!”
But your bubbles burst too fast.

Remember that crab
you once cried over?
Now offers to share a cozy shell—

but no, no—
now it's starfish you want.
And dolphins. And sea parties
with jellyfish disco lights.

You want more, more, more—
the whole reef or none at all.

But sweet sea pony,
you could meet every fish in the reef
and still miss the one creature
you really need to know.

When’s the last time
you said hi to yourself?

Perhaps, while watching
where everyone else swims,
you forgot where you’ve been,
where you are, where you're going—

forgot how your tail curls tight
around swaying grass,
how your eyes see two truths at once,
how your daily, delicate dance
deepens love that lasts.

You vanish into coral—
a quiet magic.
The starfish and dolphin
dance in the open—
watched, wanted,
caught, and often killed.

Social Behavior in Coral Reef Seahorses

In the shallow, sunlit waters of the coral reef, the little seahorse seems to gasp—a curious sight in such clear, bright surroundings. Though he has survived the deepest, darkest parts of the ocean, this delicate creature now navigates the gentle sway of sea grass beds and shallow lagoons.

Seahorses are unlike most fish. They swim upright and use their prehensile tails to anchor themselves to coral or plants, helping them stay safe from currents and predators. Their eyes move independently, allowing them to scan for food and danger simultaneously. Notice how his tail gently curls around the sea grass, securing him like an anchor, and observe his eyes—looking in two different directions at once—revealing the quiet mysteries this small creature holds.

Yet, despite these remarkable adaptations, he drifts quietly beneath the sunlight, almost sulking, as if waiting for a storm to arrive. He longs for more warmth, more movement, more excitement—but his tiny bubbles burst quickly in the calm water, fragile signs of his delicate nature.

This seahorse often displays surprising behaviors; he now seems to seek the company of other reef creatures: starfish, dolphins, and the shimmering glow of jellyfish that light up underwater gatherings at night.

Strange company for a seahorse. Seahorses are known for their monogamous bonds, often forming lifelong partnerships. Each day, mates engage in intricate dances and color changes to reinforce their connection—a ritual unique in the animal kingdom. This, however, is something a starfish or dolphin could never understand. In fact, the starfish and dolphin do not wish to understand.

Yes, they move boldly in open water—visible, admired, but vulnerable to predators and human hunters—while the seahorse explores the reef and meets many neighbors, yet may overlook his most important discovery: himself.

If the seahorse wishes to survive he must return to his nature—tucked safely in coral crevices and sea grass beds with the other seahorses. Here, he lives as a subtle, enchanting presence within the vibrant and fragile ecosystem of the reef. 

hermit year (reprieve)

How I once delighted in the thought

of folding endlessly into myself,

cradled in the quiet of only-child solitude—

a life I once treasured, now trembling.

The bridle tightens, my mane pulled

into clumsy yet unmistakable truths:

this was never how it was meant to be—

a single stall, the world blurred at my periphery.

I turned to poor company—screens—

to hearts that lit red,

to the comfortless rhythm

of ones and zeros winking at me.

I havent liked a single thing I've 'liked'

for weeks now.

And dreams of tomorrow?

Even poorer company still.

I should return to galloping—

wind, sun, and the wild beating

of hooves beside me:

the ones who loved me

even when I could not love myself.

I am tired,

worn from polishing in private—

the dull ache of unseen work

never meant to shine for anyone.

Let the viral posts wait. Let the inbox swell.

Let the to-do list yellow in the light.

Perfection is a myth I no longer feed—

its never ending need,

its reward, dust.

My dry mouth wants more.

My hermit year was not meant

to bury me deeper in shadow

but to lift me—

strong flanks, bared teeth—

northward, where I know I belong.

The South has broken me in.

Now, I lean not on pride

but on God,

and on the goodness found

in crooked lines, spilled ink,

and half-built sanctuaries.

Until I arrive at the homecoming

I’ve been hungering for

all my life.

no one knows more than me

You want him.

You want him to want you.

You want to be wanted—

by someone, anyone. He’ll do.

But he doesn’t. Not really.

You’re a warm body in a long line,

just like he’s a name

you barely bother to remember.

It isn’t love. It isn’t want.

It’s hunger with a pretty-enough face.

It’s a hole you keep feeding—

and still stays hungry.

Tell Me No

Is getting a gun permit in Alabama

as easy as getting a marriage license

in Indiana—

both a government sanctity,

to have and to hold?

I’m not sure.
But rejection feels more likely
when you're trying to publish a poem.

One poem. One rejection.
That’s 100%.

A true Libra—indecisive,
relieved someone else called it.

I love rejection.

Tell me no, and I can lie back—

no work, no hope, no follow-up.

No more what-ifs.

No juggling.

Don’t ask what I want.
Just tell me what won’t happen.
Not now. Maybe never.

Maybe a gun permit in Alabama

isn’t like a marriage license in Indiana

at all—

maybe it’s not even like a rejected poem:

filed away, too tired to explain.

Just know
you could tell me no.
Tell me no again.

No. To a gun permit.

No. To marriage.
Or yes—twice.
No. To a poem.
You make the call.
I'll accept it.

I couldn’t defend myself—
no gun, remember?
Couldn’t run—
households are heavy.
I could write.
But who would read it?
Two people.
Maybe. Maybe not

the irony isn't lost on me — just on you.

Hi, Caroline! How Are You?

So easy to say—
a gesture so small
it vanishes
between notifications.

Try it, once,
before spilling sorrow
like wine
on my white carpet—
before sighing
that no one asks
how you are.

Yes, unburdening helps.
And lucky you—
I’ve been here,
again and again.

It’s just a shame
you never do the same.

Next time,
start with those five words:
Hi, Caroline! How are you?
Or don’t.

It’s been too long.
And now,
even if you asked,
I’d lie.

You’ve taught me
how little
truth is wanted.

I’m not saying
you don’t matter—
just wondering
if I do.

sleep with me

My body is changing.
I call it perimenopause—
but who really knows?

I wake at 2:30.
Sometimes 3.
Once, 3:30.
I don’t sleep
straight through anymore.

I rise in the hush,
pad to the bathroom,
scatter more kibble
for the cats,
then drift back to bed.

And there you are—
mewing softly,
curling by my head
or tucking yourself
beneath my arm,

purring that warm,
small engine of comfort
until morning finds us—
no alarm,
just light.