sweet potato memories

It is saved in a box—

everything I've been sent.
Little snapshots of you,
your hands, the times.

I haven't reread them.

It stays in the box
until I die. Who knows
what happens then.
I guess trashed.
I don't know.
Maybe read—
then trashed?

But then I read a book,
letters between cousins
transcribed, placed in watch-tick order,
an editor's preface. Little intros
before key times, bound
and sold. Profit made
on these precious
sweet-potato memories. We—
cousins—you and I—
we don't appreciate the past anymore
'cause we're all dead.
Shame those cousins couldn't see it happen—
their friendship is a bestseller.

I'd think you and I are a bestseller,
friendship too. It just took time.

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.

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?

ciphers/sisters

the women in my life =
a wet web, shimmering—
               unsummarizable.

their messages:
grainy voicemails / emojied lists /
one-word texts / snail mail (still slimey)
humming beneath

a pond-surface plain—
but dive:
fish / algae /
eels—
a whole ecosystem fucking
in the stillness of a second.

one says:
“teaching summer PE”
[translation]
she wears the gay trope
like vintage jean jacket—
worn, wanting,
exactly hers &
her co-workers like it
('like' like liking a FB post)

another:
weight loss / shirt won’t fit—
nothing fits
anymore / new clothes?
—keep the old? how long?
and I’m brushing dust from vertebrae:
the bone-curve of her,
slipping
off the map
of who she's been.
the end = unknown.

a third:
condo listing / square footage / open house
she's selling it.....
I hear scissors snip:
thread cut.
gravity—optional.
maybe she floats past stars next month.

one sends a photo—
yes, a couch
(yes, perfect)
and in that Ikea angle, I see:
it’s about him
about how couch-shape / match
his absence.
home now = (her - him) + couch

another:
letter.
art again.
not for money.
not for clapping hands.
I read the ledger:
loss, subtracted.
herself, added.

and then me:
MBA class one.
then none.
my reply, plainspoken:
“I’m done with school."

but I trust them—
cartographers of the in between
my encrypted
~ notification ~
they’ll read
what I really sent:

a matching thread in their wet web—
pluck my meaning from the lake.
Sisters! Sisters!
I won't be
\\\weary\\\anymore\\\

women are a vast and wonderous thing.

The women in my life are a vast and wondrous thing—  

sending me the plainest of messages  

laced with the deepest codes,  

like the smooth surface of a pond  

teeming beneath with algae and eels,
and fish fucking.

One tells me she’ll teach Summer P.E.  

And like a detective dusting for prints,  

I read between the words: a lesbian so seen at work,  

she slips into the cliché like it was tailored for her.

Another texts about weight loss and clothes—  

but I, an archaeologist brushing bones,  

surmise her body is shifting fast.  

She doesn’t know how much or how long.

A third sends her condo listing.  

I, a coroner reading cause of death,  

see in the square footage and staged light  

that she's cutting every tether—  

might just float off the earth by May.

A friend sends a photo of “the perfect couch.”  

I, a WWII codebreaker with Enigma in hand,  

decipher her meaning: it fits perfectly—  

like a man once filled imperfectly, earlier this year.

Then a letter arrives, about making art again.  

The auditor in me reads her ledger lines:  

a woman no longer chasing approval or paychecks,  

but creating for herself. Finally.

Like a train conductor checking his pocket watch,  

I time my reply:  

“After one class, I’m quitting the MBA.”  

I trust these women will read what’s hidden  

in the simple words—  

the vast and wondrous thing  

I’ve sent in return.

A Time for Ahh. A Time for Release.

Why do we say Ow when we're hurt?
Why not Eep, or Ack, or Ooh, or Ahh?
Last night, I dreamt I scrolled back—
six years deep—to your first message

after we became friends again.
All it said was:
"Deleted by Sender. Negative Content."
And I didn’t flinch, didn’t sting—
not even in my sleep did I say Ow.

For anything you might’ve said
felt justified.
You could’ve made me
chew gum from your shoe,
press a boot to my chest,
take a fistful of my hair—
and I’d look up, wide-eyed,
thinking: Yeah... fair enough.

But in real life, six years ago, you didn’t.
What you did was wilder than anything
my dreaming brain could invent:

You just loved me.
You opened the door
like you’d been waiting,
like I’d never left.

And maybe back then,
I didn’t say Ow—
maybe that was a moment
for Ahh.

There is Friendship & There is This.

Sometimes, time doesn't exist

Sometimes, time dissolves—  

past, present, future  

fold into one.  

Then, now, someday  

feel as real  

as an apple in hand,  

a bite on the tongue,  

a swallow between  

tears in the break room

of a job you don't really like.

Did you know I once said,  

“I don’t know,”  

when a friend asked  

if we’d ever speak again?  

Now, I’m your Apple legacy contact—  

if you die.  

I say if,

not when,

because a world without you  

is unfathomable.

And yet—  

how many years  

was that my reality?  

My line-a-day journal—  

(the one I bought because you had it)  

reminded me:  

today’s the day.  

The day we told our versions  

of the fallout.  

How did we spend  

a whole year  

finally reunited,  

yet never name  

the elephant in the room—  

the one with the pink bow  

dressed in the weight  

of everything unsaid?  

To me, that's a friendship

of faith. Moving forward

without knowing why.

We just needed to be in

each other's lives.

Didn't talk it out—

Just open arms.

Friendship with you

like sitting on the couch

after a long, hard day.

I shouldn’t have been surprised.  

Years of devotion,  

on both sides,  

erased by a man—  

your husband, then—  

and the man-lies  

he fed us  

just to save his own skin  

for one goddamn day.  

 Grateful—

we laugh about it now.

That laughter is nourishing— 

an apple I eat every day

to keep the doctor away 

My Friends

These four women who may know of
each other but don't know each other, only me,
whom I hold close, like spokes to a wheel, rolling
down hills, valleys, and rough patches.
These four women, of whom only two have wombs—
I never mourned the loss but wondered where the ashes went
after the hospital discharge while they celebrated.
These four women who may know of each other
but don’t know each other, see pieces of each other
as I speak, for I am just bits of them,
strung together, and a single guitar pluck
could tear me apart.

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.

tarot treasure

Be my Empress, and I’ll be your Chariot, 

sheltering you, carrying you away

on my wheels from the deafening madness  

we caused, despite ourselves, anyway.

We can be laughing the whole ride that way.

the night was so dark but the day brought your light

A day I recall,  

drowning in a low tide  

that had become my life,

coldest summer I have known—  

you pulled me out  

with an ice cream.  

We swung on a swing set  

under the sun,  

me in oversized sunnies  

and a too-small t-shirt.  

I was hungover from the night before, 

but you didn't care. 

You just snapped photos  

of me soaring through the air— 

capturing fleeting smiles  

my face had forgotten for weeks.

I squint at these images,  

just as I did then,  

wondering what I did to deserve  

such a friend.

for a very virgo

My hope for you

is your heels clack with purpose

down the hallway and make

male hearts beat faster,

with fear not lust,

and the men cower in the corner

when you enter the room.

My dream for you

is to love yourself as deeply

as you love and care for others,

especially for your boys who shine

like stars in Orion's belt

scraping across the winter sky.

My wish for you

is to have, for once, someone

who invests in you as much as you

do in them—a lover, a family member,

or a friend—someone who gives more

than they take from you.

My vision for you

is a life like a temple—

perfumed with lilac and jasmine,

a blessed, sacred retreat,

like swaying gently

in the breeze on a quiet swing.

My mission for you

is to have all these things

and even more, to embrace

a life that fulfills and surpasses

all you've wished and worked for,

a culmination of dreams you’ve earned

with your butterfly heart.

My hope for me  

is to stand by your side,  

no matter the distance,  

and see every wish realized,  

every dream you've sown  

flourish and bloom  

into the life you've strived for—  

That's what I want.

pandora's box

Today we pause for the realities

we do not know and may not exist

When girl best friends say "I love you"

what felt like just one too many times

She done unlocked the highs and lows

two years winding down to an end

She learned it can't fit back into the box

friends to lovers can't be friends again.

daffodil daily

want friendship like we had in college,

when we could and would drop everything

to be together to do nothing. back before

we had started actually living. how life

was transient and we knew our lives

would somehow be completely different

in four years, but didn't know how different

the Office was really big then

Remember when we saw

Pam and Jim get married?

The Office episode, 

when it came out.

I wore red flats.

You said you liked my shoes.

I whispered,

"I found them in a parking lot."

It's true.

Suddenly I tumble, high from the sky

to a Wal-Mart parking lot.

And emerging from the asphalt

like Excalibur from the lake

red canvas flats.

When I was younger

I would've called them ballet flats.

Your eyes wide you reply

"I'm glad you whispered that."

Us in our bubble, the rest of the room blurred.

When we all were together

to watch a sitcom episode airing.

oil paint and water colors

Grasping last night's dream

like grasping straws, trapping

curling smoke in air with a net,

I get only flashes. There was you 

and me. Now, though we didn't 

speak for a decade. The silence 

was like us. Me, oil paint, thick

and heavy-handed. You, water paints,

delicate and difficult. The same, we.

How does one explain a decade

in a dream, describe a lifetime 

of choices that sum up to - 

I was wrong. I was confused.

I still am. In one toss, one turn,

one fleeting dark night?

We are just oil and water,

and I am a restless sleeper.

winter friends

I am resilient

like a plant

yellow wilted 

leaves, green

after the winter

hardy from cold.

Just as forever,

we are resilient

roots entwined

loving and hurt

afar and near

all these years.

reoccurring

Why am I like that pet store

from my dream

where I took you to play with puppies

because you asked for it

and they sold us a puppy which died

in your arms minutes later.

Dream you still thanked me,

hugged me.

The short lived hope crushed by 

external realities. 

baby blues

smoking newports by the pool,
we felt so grown but were barely babies,
with boys in bands, small apartments, and
keg stands waiting for us.
but the real joys of life
were right here, between the 
chemical mint smoke and
chlorinated sweat and us and
the saddest moments of my life
were the years of silence between us.

girl martyrs and back when it was my turn

speeding up the highway, north
it's dead baby deer, dead baby deer,
another dead baby deer
and they are all does.
what's wrong with us
to make us seek kissing friends
with death.