What if your whole life is a spell and how you live it is what you manifest?

Don’t you know? I don’t like it when I act like that either.

co-dependent

When you’re married, you spiral

in and out of depression together.

I got us into this mess, but

thank God you’re getting better—

you’ll pull us out of it.

ketamine

i.v. in.
he closes his eyes,
says,

“in vietnam,
the canopy pressed so tight
overhead
day stayed dark—
like being blind,
like now, with my eyes
shut. but sound everywhere.
you listen.
you have to listen.”

i’ve never seen jungle
that thick.
don’t need to.
i believe him.

he drifts closer—
“green’s a good color.
lilacs, they smell sweet.”
i smile—
i agree.

jump from the swing set

dirty feet, white sheets,
like when we’d leap off swings,
air-stung, breathless.
like cats, landing's no problem.

rose petals stuck to cheeks—
(the derrière kind), peel ’em off.
then peel blond bangs
sweaty from a brow, beat.

rings taken off. socks still on.
shiverin' without a chill in the air.

hold up. sip that water.

trust her.
you’re already mid-air.

Creature Comforts

He turned on the TV—
all day I hadn’t known a thing:
Cracker Barrel’s new logo,
wildfires swallowing forests,
war in faraway streets,
Labubus, school shootings,
Taylor Swift, Travis Kelce,
flash floods, murders, missing persons.

I’ve only known of these things
through a screen.

Here, it is just him and me,
our little tending:
the bunny nest we fenced,
feral cats we feed,
the tree that leans too far,
compost turned slow,
tomatoes plucked
from sun-warmed vines.

Good Boy

A dog so good, he is sold

From man to man,

Until he finds a master

Who prizes him more

Than any sum of money

That could be offered.

things I've never seen but imagine sometimes

Your hair in a wad on my shower wall.

Our socks tumbling in the same dryer—

so mixed up I accidentally put on yours.

Silly me, I wore them all day.

Your hands smelling of my favorite lotion—

not one you’d buy, but nice enough

for tonight. Your bottle of water

on the nightstand, I got half-price,

for sipping in the dark.

Your lost earring, found

behind the sofa I’ve moved to three houses.

You smelling the lids of all my perfumes,

picking one to try for the day:

“This one is nice.”

You in those cute pants I can't wear

anymore. For you, a perfect fit.

Your phone charging next to mine.

Do you want to pull a tarot card

from my favorite deck?

Your favorite mug beside mine.

Can you forgive me if I use whole cow’s milk

in my coffee each morning?

You love how basic I am that way.

I set your cup

by a framed photo of us.

Put your dirty spoon in the dishwasher

I'll unload tomorrow.

A Beautiful Place

Is it lonely, watching
friends for decades die?

With a wife too young
to understand? A dog
you thought would outlive you,
taken by tumors?

You’ve been touched by poverty,
measles, mumps, an Indiana priest,
war, prison—more
than most men could bear.

Close your eyes. Remember:
you were a child at war.
While the other boys, in their helmets,
stared at Steve McQueen,
watched Bullitt flicker
against a sheet of plywood—
enjoyed brief escape.
Fast cars, Hollywood chases—
Army supplied for one night.

But you—
you were entranced by the South China Sea,
by lush green pressing in
on every side—your favorite color,
the one you carried through war.

You know the face of someone torn apart,
heard the deafening explosions,
the chorus of screams—
yet still, you would not say
you hated all of Vietnam.
It was such a beautiful place.

Perhaps, in this final jungle,
some green remains—
something left
for you to love.

Titanic Friendship

you are the lifevest

keeping my head above the tide.

I am not safe, not saved—

I might still sink
into the cold cathedral
of the sunken liner,

but for now,
this drifting wreck
rides the gray swell
between iceberg
and rescue.

committed (as in marriage or mental institution)

At this point, love feels like a scam. I’ve spent fifteen years in back-to-back long-term relationships, and before that, short ones stacked like dominoes. The beginning is always a slippery slope. No wonder they call it falling in love. Love is a hole, one that deepens each year, harder to escape. The only way I’ve ever climbed out is by reaching for another ladder—another person, another hole. Perhaps less deep… until I get to work with my shovel.

My best qualities—loyalty, eagerness to please, the drive to improve—always become my undoing. Each need I meet only sets the bar higher, until I’m crushed under the weight of expectation.

A job is kinder than a lover. A job tells you what it wants, reviews you annually, praises you when you succeed. Procedures change, but you’re warned, and you adapt. And if you fail, they have the decency to let you go.

A lover is insidious. The bar creeps upward without warning, without memo, without meeting. I am five-foot-two. I can only reach so far. Eventually, the standard rises beyond my grasp—and I fail. Followed by the assurance: they are committed to me—forever, till the end, as long as I work to get it right next time.

The blow is crueler because I once succeeded. I once believed myself strong, capable, good. Now I sit, speechless, crying, unable to explain why the one thing I want—to please, to love—is always the one thing torn from me.

When do I give up? Admit that I was made for failure, shoveling dirt from the pit day after day? At work, raised standards make me stronger. In love, they break me slowly, invisibly, until one day I look back and cannot tell when I cracked. Why don’t these things come with an escape hatch? Even my office has emergency exits, maps pinned to the wall.

Tonight, I don’t know how to last another day. When it comes to me, don’t give the standard carrot-and-stick. I’ll take a tiny scrap—a baby-cut, small as can be—and a 4x4 beam, big as can be. Like a beaten dog, I take a strip of meat. Like a broken horse, I accept a handful of oats. Forgive the hunger. Forgive the whip. And maybe, someday, mercy will come. Perhaps you’ll see me as the ruined dog that can’t mush one more mile, or the lame horse with a shattered leg, and find the courage to put me down. Old Yeller me.

Until then, alas, I acknowledge: I am still standing. You can see that. You say, "You've improved, but you have a ways to go." I nod. Chomp the tiny morsel. The sliver of carrot is good after hours of hurt.

Tomorrow, I will rise again. I will work and work. I will strain my arms to reach a little higher. I may never know if love will be kind. I may never know if I will fully please another without losing myself. But I can measure my own persistence. I can honor my own courage. I have tenacity. And maybe, in that, I am already succeeding.

two-faced

I need to get offline awhile.
I can feel my brain rotting.
My boss complimented me—
I think? Said I was chaotic
and loud in person, but
straightforward, clear, and
polished in email. I work in email.

Which is why there’s a whole cohort
of people who interact with me weekly
and think I’m straightforward, clear,
and polished. But I’m not. I’m two-faced.

An Instagram reel taught me
how to wash my hair right—
and tonight I almost forgot.

Two Devils

I can stand strong
with just a toe
on a matchbook—
maybe a soft mutt—
yet pull more than my own weight,
a rebel yell
preserved in even smaller spaces.

Past cast-off. Orphans
never weep for home;
they burrow, they furrow,
and wallow
in a life they’ve made.

Don’t wear down—
just grow callused, harder,
deep in depth,
defiantly pliant,
’cause I serve two devils:
you,
and myself.

Live, Laugh, Leave

"Sleep well? Sweet dreams?"

The smell of butter and dry eggs clung to the kitchen air. Lindsey’s mother scraped scrambled eggs from the skillet. Lindsey pressed her lips together and nodded. She wasn’t about to mention the dream where a porn company bought the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile and replaced the hot dog with an animatronic dolphin—fiberglass skin slick with fake water, its body arcing endlessly over a giant bread-colored bun. Or the one where she held two heavy duffel bags, straps cutting into her palms as a man kept stuffing them with drugs.

If she told her mom, there’d be an impromptu Bible study at the table, her eggs cooling beside a highlighter-marked verse.

“Okay. Remember—the air conditioner repairman will be here at one. Let him in, make sure he doesn’t steal anything. I’ll call you on my break.”

“Of course.”

Lindsey’s eyes caught on the gold cross at her mother’s throat. It glinted in the sunlight slanting through the blinds—sharp-edged, heavy-looking. She thought of a noose.

Her mother slung her purse over her shoulder. “Consider calling Jason. Marriage isn’t easy. Your father and I had our own trials and tribulations. You need to fix this whole divorce mess you started.”

The front door shut with a hollow clap. Outside, the car engine turned over and faded down the street. Lindsey let out the breath she’d been holding since breakfast. 

She’d asked for a divorce a month ago and had been “temporarily” living with her mother ever since. It felt like years. Her widowed mother still believed this was a spiritual crisis—something prayer could fix. 

They’d married fast, just after her father’s diagnosis, her mother saying it was better for the photos: no bald head, no mourning daughter. Pass from Daddy to husband. She followed Jason through bad business schemes, borrowed money, and bounced checks. Her mother cosigned loans she knew they’d never repay. The thought of divorce hadn’t come as a plan—more like seeing a dead squirrel on the drive to her therapist no one knew about.

No one needs a therapist if they have enough space for Jesus in their heart.

Every Thursday, she passed the same dead squirrel on the way to New Beginnings Counseling. Sun-browned fur, tail stiff as wire. Cars ahead of her would hit it again. She’d swerve, but still feel the soft th-thump. Her younger sister once told her “ran through” meant someone who’d slept with a lot of people. Lindsey had only been with Jason, but she felt ran through all the same—flattened, skin cracking, fur twitching in the wind.

Surely there had to be more to life than being run through nonstop.

Divorce. I want a divorce.

The words had slipped out. Jason’s face hadn’t even changed. “You need a break. Go to your mom’s. Reconnect to God’s will.”

Divorce was supposed to be freedom, but with only $400 saved from Jason’s weekly offerings—each Sunday folded in a church program with his invite to “come hear The Good Word."

The divorce lawyer wanted a thousand up front. Even if she found it—where would she go? Her mother wouldn’t let her sleep here under the Jesus portraits once she was actually divorced.

At least with Jason, she knew what came next.

Divorce was a cannonball into a black hole.

Sleeping in her childhood bed just delayed the inevitable.

The prodigal wife's return.

At one o’clock, she’d done just enough to make the house look cleaner—straightened couch pillows, ran a dry rag over the counter. The knock startled her, quick and sharp against the wood. The man on the porch startled her more.

Slicked-back black hair. Leather jacket creased from wear. Snug boot-cut jeans with rhinestone swirls on the pockets. A pink-handled pocketknife clipped to the front. A big, gaudy belt buckle featuring a cartoon character she didn't recognize. Boots stitched with flecks of gold thread.

She usually tightened up around gay men—afraid of saying the wrong thing, of being drawn into their slippery, irretrievable world.

But the white van in the driveway said “AC Repair.”

She was expecting him.

“My goodness, sweetie. Is that you, Lindsey?”

She squinted at him—strong jawline, broad shoulders. Who—?

“It’s Ronald. High school. You told me I was going to hell all the time. Remember? Gaaaay.” He punctuated the word with two sharp snaps.

“Oh… Ronald… I’m so sorry.” Her ears went hot. Throat tight.

“Nah. You were just a child, repeating what you were told.

That was twenty-five years ago.”

She twisted the fabric of her dress between her fingers. “Come in, Ronald.”

He glanced at the Ten Commandments hanging on the wall.

“Lindsey, you look like you could use a joint.”

She thought of elbows and knees.

Seeing her confusion, he grinned. “Weed, Darlin'. Marijuana.”

With the some foreign reflex , she said, “Sure. My room’s this way.”

Ronald sprawled across her bed like he owned it, rolling a joint on a copy of Home & Garden. The paper crackled under his fingers; the smell of fresh-ground weed bloomed in the air.  She used to light a candle, kneel, and pray to God here. Today, she just lit the scented candle. 

“You ever done this before? Or am I gonna have to teach you?" He asked. “No. I always tried to do the right thing.”

“Baby, there’s no right or wrong—just what you want, as long as you’re not hurting anyone. Christians get so obsessed with being right they’ll trample anyone in their way. Here—pinch it, hold it to your lips, breathe in deep.”

She took it between two fingers. “Don’t you need to fix the AC?”

He chuckled low. “Your mom has us come every month. Nothing’s wrong. I charge her forty bucks, pretend to check it, maybe drop the thermostat a couple degrees. She needs reassurance that it's as cold as her heart.”

Lindsey giggled and inhaled, the smoke rough and peppery in her throat. Coughed until her eyes watered. “That’s it, sweetie. You got it, girl.” he said.

Taking the joint from her, “Why are you here? Your mom usually sends the neighbor to keep an eye on me. Make sure the fag doesn't steal her Precious Moments figurines.”

“Oh… I guess I’m divorcing Jason...maybe.”

“Holy shit, you married that dick?”

She told him everything—her mom, Jason, secret therapy, the squirrel, the roadkill feeling, the $400.

Maybe, with enough Sunday money, she could get a lawyer. But it felt like trying to reach shore while treading quicksand.

“I don’t know. Maybe I should just call Jason. That’s what Mom says. Call Jason. Stop this divorce mess.”

“If you ever want a break from—” he gestured toward the crucifixes, “—call me. Hang out. Stay over.”

“Why? Why would you offer that?”

He put a warm, steady hand on her knee.

The weight was grounding, not suggestive.

“Because you need a friend, honey.

Your momma ain't a friend. Jason ain’t a friend either.”

“Yeah. He is a prick.” The word felt foreign and gritty in her mouth.

Ronald grinned. “First time you’ve said that, huh?”

They laughed.

“I need a receptionist. Someone I can trust. Answer phones, make appointments, not talk too much. Easy. Do it from here on the phone. Mommy dearest doesn’t have to know.”

“That’s kind, but I don’t think I can. I have to figure out what I want first.”

“Bullshit. You know what you want. You just don’t believe you can have it. You didn’t get stuck on your own—you were guided here, right thing by right thing. You can’t get out alone. Let me help. I’ll teach you how to do wrong."

He shifted his weight closer to her, "Twenty-five years ago, you told me I’d go to hell. Looking at you now, I think you’ve been living there instead.”

He snuffed the joint with a lick of his fingers, the ember hissing out. “You can go back to what you know and get more of it—or you can try something else. If nothing else… it’ll be something else.”

The smell of weed tangled with the cheap vanilla candle. She thought of the dolphin, trapped in its endless arc, and the weight of duffel bags cutting into her palms. Maybe Ronald was offering to set them down.  “Hey, Ronald… you ever dream of the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile?”

“Yeah. Dreamt the hot dog was a robot dolphin.”

“Me too. What about drugs in duffel bags? Dream of that?”

“I don’t dream it. I live it, baby. Four in the van. Be my receptionist. You’ll have lawyer money, apartment money, gold watch money, never talk to mommy money—a whole new life—before you know it. Trust me.”

She felt her pulse jump. It sounded dangerous—maybe ruinous. 

There it was—her old fear that the gays would invite her into their slippery, sordid world. Like running beside a pool, losing her footing, plunging into the deep end.

Today, she wanted to drown.

“Okay,” she said. "I'll do it.”

Ronald handed her a phone from his pocket.

"I'll call you tomorrow. Throw that money in Jason's face this Sunday. You don't need him or his money anymore."

Blackout Billy

He woke up in familiar surroundings. Next to a familiar girl. Even the teddy bear beside him was all too familiar. But without a single idea of how he got there. He hadn’t intended to get blackout drunk. He never did intend to get blackout drunk. It just happened.

He searched his memories for evidence of how he’d come to be here. But, like sifting through a hoarder’s house for something of value, it was futile and defeating. Something about a car. Then a field. Maybe. His mouth tasted like decay—sour, metallic, stale at the edges. Sweat clung to his skin, cold in some places, hot in others, leaving a faint crust where it had dried. His stomach churned with what was likely the dregs left over after vomiting.

Sarah, next to him, stirred. She was completely nude, so he felt compelled to ask, “So, uh, what did we do last night?”

She stared directly into his eyes until he began to feel nauseous. He turned his gaze to the ceiling.

With a heavy sigh that jolted the mattress, she said, “Don’t worry. You couldn’t get it up. You couldn’t cum… nothing. Nothing happened. But you did say you still loved me.”

He winced at that last sentence. Fucking stupid. Why couldn’t he be like other guys? Drink like other guys? Why did he have to make mistakes like this? It would have been better to wake up next to a stranger in a house five counties over than to wake up here. He could live with making a mistake—blacking out, sleeping with some girl. But a stupid mistake like this? He was sick of doing this. Just a stupid mistake.

She interrupted his thoughts. “I know. I know.” Then, in a mockingly deep voice, she exaggerated, “This was just a stooooopid mistake.”

He kept staring at the ceiling. Was that a crack? No. Just a shadow from a tree branch outside. Good. He could not afford to repair a crack.

“Don’t worry, hun. I know I’m five years of a stupid mistake for you. If anything, it’s my mistake. I saw you walking down the street crying, so I offered you a ride. You were so dirty. I brought you to the house. I washed your clothes—they’re there.” She pointed to a pile on a chair. “I’ll take you to your apartment when you want. Just thought since you pay for the house it wouldn’t hurt you to sleep here once in a while.”

Her voice softened then, almost imperceptibly.  “It’s nice… when you’re here. Just for a night. Like old times." She didn’t look at him when she said it, busying herself with smoothing the bedsheet over her knee.

"Well don't get used to it." He said as he picked up the boxers to put on, but even freshly laundered they faintly smelled of urine. Or maybe that was him. God, he could smell himself—stale sweat, sour skin, a note of something chemical and wrong.

“I need to use the bathroom.” He started toward the bedroom door but paused when he stepped over a plastic toy truck on the floor. She sensed his hesitation.

“Don’t worry. Your son is with your mother right now. He won’t see you.”

He heard the words come out of his mouth: “Sarah, I’m done. I’m going to quit.” They were heavy, automatic. He said them the same way every time, but this morning his voice caught on the last word—just enough to sound like maybe, for half a second, he wanted to believe himself.

“Oh, of course, hun. You’ve been quitting since I met you. It’s bound to actually happen at some point. But it wasn’t last night.”

Glancing at the calendar on the wall, he panicked. “Sarah, what’s today?”

“It’s August 1st. Monday. Mortgage for the house, rent for your apartment due too.”

“Yeah, Sarah, and I have fucking work! Goddamnit!” He looked down at his watch—8 a.m. “Can you drive me to work?”

“Yeah, of course. Let me get dressed.”

“Can we stop by a gas station on the way? So I can get a coffee, pack o’ smokes, maybe a sandwich.”

“Sure, hun.”

Yes. At the gas station he could get a tallboy of beer. He pictured it cold and sweating in his palm, the thin crack of the tab breaking the seal, the hiss that meant relief was coming. Sneak it past Sarah in his coat pocket. Chug it in three quick tilts before walking into work. The bitter sting down his throat, the heat blooming in his chest. Something to help him get through the day. Just for today, though. Maybe another at lunch if he needed it. He wasn’t going to get blackout drunk again tonight. He was really going to quit tomorrow.

He just needed a little something for today.

Tomorrow would be different.

He just had to get through today.

Not blackout. Quit tomorrow.

It would all be ok.

Inefficient Healing

Writing, then reading my writing,

Then writing again, only to read.

Like the bug bite from May—

I scratched until it bled. It scabbed

By July, but I picked at it

Every month since. Now,

In August, a pink, round dot

On my wrist—probably forever.

If I’d left well enough alone,

Shown some restraint,

There’d be no story—

No scar to share.

Barbed Wire Bitches

Saturday. 4 p.m. Knock at the door. Must be Jim.

Even if Jim hadn’t said the day before, “Tomorrow I might stop by to borrow the pressure washer,” a knock on Steve’s door usually meant Jim. On any given day, Jim and Steve found each other somewhere—the job site. Steve’s house. Jim's apartment. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Gym. Hunting. Fishing. Movie. Football game. Even chores. Steve could count on Jim to help him repair a fence, change out a faucet, paint a room, dig a trench. And Jim could count on Steve the same way. They were friends. Always together. Their coworkers called them “The Twins.”

When real men are friends, they don’t need to say much. They just are there.

No need to explain it. Just do and live and exist. Be there.

Friend can mean many things.

Steve opened the door. But it wasn’t just Jim.

Next to him stood a pretty, young blonde in a thin, gauzy sundress—the kind that could drive a man stupid. Casual, floral, modest in theory, but the kind of fabric that turned sheer under bright sun. It was too sunny of a day for Steve. The sun was too bright today.

Jim shifted uneasily, voice tight. “This is my... friend, Mary.” His eyes flicked between the woman and Steve like he was searching for a flicker of understanding—some wordless permission that wasn’t there.

Mary grinned, all teeth and charm. “Oh my God! Steve! So nice to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you!”

She stretched the “so” like she’d read Steve’s biography and memorized the chapter titles.

Steve had never heard of Mary. Not once. Not in all the burritos, the beers, the boat rides. What else had Jim left out? They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to. That was the point. That was the comfort. That was the code.

Any other day, Jim would have barely said “Hey,” walked in, grabbed a beer from the fridge, maybe a bag of chips, sat on the chair. Together they’d watch whatever was on ESPN—even soccer. Jim had been in this house a thousand times. Knew where everything was, from the paper towels to Steve’s mother’s ashes. Washed and dried his laundry in the garage. Ate leftovers without asking. He belonged here as much as Steve did. 

But today, Jim cleared his throat and said, “Mind if I grab that pressure washer? I’m doing her driveway.”

So that was how it was going to be now.

It wasn’t the first time. Before Jim, there was Jacob. Always worked the same shift. Always together. Always helping each other out—until Rhonda showed up.

Before that, in high school, it was Liam. Teachers still talked about Steve and Liam like they were legends. Their antics. The crickets in the hallway. The food dye in the pool. The two-day school closure. Class clowns—the kind you couldn’t sit next to each other.

Then Sara came along junior year. By senior year, Liam didn’t look at Steve. By graduation, Sara was pregnant. Steve was discarded.

It always started in the voice. The quiet satisfaction of men who didn’t need to speak became awkward. Sentences stuttered. Words got replaced by throat-clearing, filler noises—erhms and uhhs and ohs. A man who once moved with confidence now shifted like a little boy caught in his dad’s garage, holding something he wasn’t supposed to touch.

Steve stepped back. “Come in.”

But Jim and Mary stood in the living room. Jim looked like a stranger in the room he helped renovate. His eyes slid over the couch, the rug, the buck on the wall. He stared like it was all new. Like Steve was, too.

Steve said, “Garage. Pressure washer’s in the garage.”

“Yeah. I’ll go get it.”

Mary stayed. Alone with Steve. He hated her.

She filled the air immediately. “This is such a nice house. Jim told me all about how your mom died and left it to you, and how y’all replaced the fence and dug the trenches. I love the wall color. Is this the room you and Jim painted? He said he helped pick it out. So, you two work together, right? Construction? Have you done that long? Do you like it? Seems to suit Jim.”

Her voice kept going, bright and syrupy, sweet and suffocating. Steve’s eyes drifted past her to the mounted 12-point buck on the wall. Jim had shot it. Steve remembered the day—how proud Jim was, how humbled Steve felt when Jim offered it for the living room.

He’d wanted that day on his wall forever. 

Men were like deer. Proud. Quiet. Strong. Fast. Free. Leaping through green fields together. Happy.

Women were like barbed wire—appearing overnight. Pretty at first. Delicate, thin, shiny metal. You saw the meadow just on the other side—the wildflowers swaying, the sun falling soft on the grass. But the wire was waiting. It tore the flesh. Blood and fur left behind.

Once barbed wire showed up, the run was done. The fun was over. It was never the same again.

Jim returned gripping the pressure washer. “Well, uh... we gotta get going,” he mumbled.

Steve locked eyes with him, searching for a glimpse of yesterday’s friend. “Game’s tomorrow. Sunday football.”

Jim looked at Mary. But she answered for him. “Oh, we can’t! He’s meeting my parents for Sunday dinner. But I’m sure he’ll see you around sometime.”

See you around sometime.

As if Monday they wouldn’t be eating gas station breakfast burritos on the tailgate before work. As if they wouldn’t be ripping shingles off a roof side-by-side. Drinking after work. Hunting. Fishing. Laughing. Living life. Together.

As if Steve wouldn’t keep the fridge stocked for both of them.

As if they hadn't made plans. Yes, they didn't talk a lot. But they did talk sometimes. Jim and Steve just didn’t talk feelings. They talked doing. Doing things. Making plans. Their future. One Mary was ripping up by the roots. What about the above-ground garden they were going to build next year? The trip to Alaska? Saving up to attend the Super Bowl? Fixing up his dad's '59 Chevy?

Jim cleared his throat. “Hey, man. Good to see ya. I’ll... see you around.”

Before Steve even realized it, his arms wrapped around Jim. The words slipped out, raw and unfamiliar: “I love you, man.”

I love you,
man.

It was the first and only time he ever said it—Jim just shrugged, “Bye, bro.”

Mary reached for Jim’s hand—the one not holding the pressure washer—and led him, and Steve's future, and the washer, to the door.

Her tits and ass were visible through the dress as the sunlight lit her up. She was glowing as Jim loaded the washer into the bed of his truck. 

Steve stood at the threshold, watching. He already knew: he wouldn’t see the pressure washer again. Or Jim. Not like that. Not anymore.

By Monday, Jim would be just a coworker.

Barbed wire. Fucking bitches. All of them.

A tightness pulled in Steve’s chest. Heat behind his eyes. He clenched his jaw.

Don’t cry over bitches.

He slammed his fist into the TV. The screen splintered like ice under a boot.

He didn’t care.

What was the point anymore?

He looked up at the buck. The head on the wall stared back, hollow and proud. Black glass eye staring down at him.

Steve spat.

It dripped down the antlers to the floor.

The run was over. No more fun.

That dream was dead too.

autosarcophagy

She used to sleep soundly through the night. That changed when she hit forty. Not on her 40th birthday exactly, but close enough that it felt significant.

Now, she’s awake—her usual 2 a.m. stirring. It’s always at this hour that fear of the future creeps in.

It’s funny. As a young woman, she never worried about the future. Back then, she paid rent four days late, held her breath as her debit card swiped, heart pounding. She lived moment to moment. Or, at most, paycheck to paycheck. Back then, the future could only be better, because the present was so harsh.

Now, she lies in the dark with her eyes shut, slowing her breath, holding possible futures in her mind like items in a store. She examines them, imagines them, as if trying to choose which one to buy. But every scenario feels like that bottle of ketchup she picked up last month.

The last one on the shelf. The label was slightly crinkled in the center. At the time, it didn’t seem like a big deal—imperfect but usable. But over the next few days, the label bent more, thinned, peeled at the edges, exposing sticky glue. Every time she picked it up, thick residue clung to her fingers and wouldn’t wash off. It had to be worn away—slowly, with time, like worry that lingers until the mind sheds it.

Thinking about the future felt like that. A small flaw she could overlook—until it grew. Until it clung to everything. So she slowed her breathing. Reached out to pet the cat curled beside her.

Maybe she’d do better as a cat. A pet. Just food and water, and the hardest choice is where to nap. She imagined her favorite spot would be the chair by the door, the one that soaked in sunlight most of the day. Then again, maybe she’d bat angrily at toys, pace in circles, stare out the windows at the world beyond the walls.

The cat purred.

Once, the cat lived outside, surviving on bugs. It had seemed happy then. Now it lived indoors and seemed happy enough. The cat probably didn’t worry about the future—at most, about tomorrow. Like the cat, she didn't worry about tomorrow or even the day after tomorrow.

It was the formless, shapeless blobs of time she feared. The amoeba-time: one month, two months, six months, a year, a decade—blending together into some uncertain something. So many variables. The husband snoring beside her—he could die soon or live for years. The job she might land—or not. The new town she might like—or hate. The people she hasn’t met—the people she has. Her heartbeat—racing now—might carry her to ninety, or stop at fifty-seven, like her mama’s. Anything could happen between now and then.

The cat put a paw to her face.

She hadn’t feared the future back when she feared the present. When life came in two-week increments. When uncertainty was survival, not philosophy. Maybe the ability to worry about the future was the luxury of a stable present.

She thought: If I were a cat, I’d probably nap next to whoever gave me food.

And that was enough—for now. Enough to put the future on pause. Enough to put the ketchup away, to let go of the day, to focus only on the night and the sleep she still might find.

What was she worried about? All the bills were paid. To her left, her husband snored. To her right, the cat snored. This was the music that lulled her back to sleep.

desert roses are just as sweet.

My husband honks at a Tesla

idling at the green light, but my mind

is in the desert. Georgia O’Keeffe

born in Wisconsin, passed through cities

until the desert claimed her.

If Georgia O’Keeffe could die

in New Mexico, maybe

I—born in Indiana, lived in Alabama—

could also fall into desert flower blooms,

adobe walls, and 300 days

of sunshine a year. For a while,

for a decade, for a lifetime.

For the first time in a while,

the vast, unknowable future

felt exciting and fun again.

The Tesla finally moved,

with a not so friendly wave,

my husband and I were

on our way home again.

alpha beta VI

although almost alight, ain't 

blight blinks blind bounding brindles

couldn't come careless, caught up cautious

don't dare demonize, dastardly deep.

even eagles eagerly ear early eats...

finna finsta fight

gosh girl, get gonged. get gooped, get groped

heavy headlight hopes home

ice-like ick idealizes indented imagines

jacketless, jammed jails jerk jesters

kayaking kegs keeping kennels khaki

laceleaf lacerated landlocked limbs

magpie mails measles medley

naked, naive native noob notes

only oafs obduce oddities open

pressed pizza palm

quarantine quakes quality

remote revises reality

sachet sad selfies saved sallow so-and-so's

tactic tracks tactile tags tan taps

unless ultra umbilical umps unconcerned

vacant vagabond visions vague vogue

waddling, waffling, wavering, waking,

xxx

yellowbelly yelps "yikes!"

zinna zings zinc.