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?