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?