mountain mama

This must be how snakes feel just after shedding their old skins. All that itchiness from before—cracked, dry, peeling away—and underneath, I was soft, pale, fresh to the world. Tender as a baby’s fontanel.

It was there. We met halfway in the parking lot. Not really. Stick with me—this is a rough and clunky metaphor. We met halfway in a parking lot like divorced parents handing off the kid.

You, too, had shed the old skin. Your belly was soft, tender, pink. Tiny blood vessels coursed below.

It was here you said, “This is the only time I ever really talk to you. When I’m on this truth-serum stuff.”

It was the truth. Then you asked me where I wanted to move. But I couldn’t name a place. Then you grew stern: “In the future, when you are old and can live anywhere before you die, look around. What does that look like?”

I saw trees. Forests. Maybe mountains. Not too big a city. Maybe a medium-sized town. But with culture—civic theater, an orchestra.

“You find that in a college town. Have you been to West Virginia? Driven where Kentucky, Ohio, and West Virginia meet? There’s Huntington, West Virginia. Marshall University is there.”

I closed my eyes and imagined the geographical threesome. “Yes! I have!”

I recounted a trip to West Virginia. To see an Ani DiFranco show with my best friend—the one now dead. We drove through the mountains. Stopped on a peak to watch stars. Got tattoos before the show. That one. On my hip. You know?

Now we—you and I—our bare, new snake-bellies were touching. So smooth, our skin now. Not rough and tough, not hurting each other anymore.

You said, “You know it’s cheap to live there? We could buy a house in cash. One you’ll never need to make a mortgage payment on when I die. The leftover from the sale of our current place... go on a nice trip, and the rest in savings.”

Yessssssss. Yessssssssssss.

This is a place our new skins can breathe until they get too tight and itchy again someday.

i should be banned from female sports social media

barefoot players,
shorts riding high—
uniforms with cheeks
dripping out the bottom
and a jersey.

arms cinched around teammates,
hands grazing low on stomachs,
touches held
a beat too long—
posed,
curated,
for the feed.

their toes flex,
soles grip the glossed blue court,
arches rising—
a choreography
made for scrolling.

i don’t want,
but i want,
this heat climbing my chest.

what’s it like
in the locker room—
wet hair dripping down jerseys,
towels snapping?
on the bus, campus to campus,
knees pressed together,
music loud, dancing
in their seats?

after a win,
Gatorade splashed down bare backs,
sugar running sticky along spines,
the air sharp with citrus,
their laughter cracking wide.

ladies, ladies, ladies,
i’m rooting for you—
are you rooting for me?

Hermit Year (Almost Over)

Today I wore a necklace—

yellow dried flowers, resin

set on shell, a choker

I found at a thrift store

eleven years ago—

a lifetime ago.

I left my husband,

comatose in bed,

to see Billy Joel in Chicago

with his friend—

a woman.

I didn’t think twice

when we stopped at the thrift store.

I bought this necklace.

We went to the concert,

rode the L there and back,

fell asleep side by side

on her couch,

season two of Orange Is the New Black

spooling through the night

until Netflix asked:

Are you still there?

We weren’t.

I had already moved on—

to a new husband, new house,

new job, new life—

still wearing the necklace.

Everyone talks about five-year plans,

about goals. I never had the chance

to tell her I did those things

we dreamed about that night.

Cause divorce always ends

conversations with his friends.

And now, as the wheel turns again,

the gears grinding beneath my feet,

I see the house that was never quite right,

the coworkers I liked well enough,

the streets I never liked to drive—

and I can say goodbye, goodbye,

knowing I’ll land gracefully,

wearing the years

around my neck

like gold.

Birthday Card

I’m glad I got a birthday card.

Some years I don’t.

And Gandhi said, "Be the change you

wish to see in the world."

The golden rule: "Treat others

how you want to be treated."

But neither mentions—

it doesn’t guarantee a thing for you,

only for everyone else.

So I write birthdays in my planner,

a reminder a week ahead.

I’m grateful someone

will always remember yours,

even in the years

no one remembers mine.

But not this year.

This year a card arrived early.

And I felt what you must feel

when my envelope lands

in your mailbox—

every year.

2nd amendment

my friend eddy was a park ranger
he said you can take down any game in north america
with a .22.

that’s why you need to buy one,
buy shells, and we’ll go
to the gun range.

i’ll teach you how to shoot,
because someday i won’t be around,
and that gun can take down
a rapist,
or a bear.

i think i could
be at peace with dying
if you can shoot.

and when i’m in hell,
i’ll be waiting at the gate
to welcome any bastard
you send my way.

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush

I once dreamed of endless possibilities

unfolding after you were gone.

Now I fear the boundless unknown—

fear who I might become

without you.

So I cling to this now,

this tender now,

and press the future away.

I don’t know

if any possibility

is as good

as right now.

Remember the one and only time we met in person? Your feet hurt from your wedge sandals, and you asked if I had something like white Keds you could borrow for a walk. I said I did. But when you saw they were red knockoffs, you said they didn’t go with your outfit—so you suffered on platforms, walking beside me for five blocks.

Can you keep a secret?

It begins with shoes.

When I was in kindergarten

I had a favorite pair—

white knockoff Keds

with Rudolph painted on

in cheap craft paint,

probably from a church sale.

I wore them nearly every day.

No one said anything.

Not when they were out of season,

not in the rain,

not when my toes bunched

painfully at the tips.

Then one morning

they hurt too much to wear.

We bought replacements that day.

I cried and cried.

Who could have guessed

a child would outgrow her shoes?

If an adult had intervened,

I might have worn them

just three weeks—Christmas only.

Instead, my pinky toes still curl

like lotus feet, bound

to the shape of those shoes.

And you—

like them, I loved you too long,

until the hurt made me

discard you at once.

Still, I carry you:

the spark of what once fit.

You are a pinky toe

curled in