REFLECTIONS OF ORANGE COUNTY
growing as I peel
She bore confident foals;
Gifted with space
Watching from the west
tending the stables.
They roam the desert;
Seek water;
free-falling,
Unaware.
On iron horses
and wild mustangs;
she flies through towns
collecting the undervalued.
The tired.
And left behind…
I've not explored the ocean much.
My family made day trips over the years.
I'd every intention to in a past life —
with a class of high-achievers,
to look for whales together.
But cold rain came
and everyone scattered.
So the chaperones drove us
to Universal Studios
Where we marveled
at projections of robots with guns.
I keep my exclamations vague. Only offering the most extreme stories cover space. Chaos is for behind the scenes – embarrassing! If you don't perform perfectly at all times, you’re written off. Show too much emotion, I'll end up at a mental institution.
I saw myself there—another mustang to tame. With Angelina, hiding a chicken. With Mary-Kate, smoking a cig. With Drew, playing MASH. But my parents took on real horses, so I simply fantasized of flying over the cuckoo’s nest.
Not connecting with the ranch; allergic to horses. And hay. And dust. I auditioned for parts as I stayed indoors. Watching films like how-to videos. Only knowing feelings by their visual reference.
I observe the communication techniques of a tabloid. How to tell stories like they did. To package my thoughts with drive-by speed. Must-have. Sexy ephemera. To communicate as a billboard. Quick. Direct. To define myself through mission statements. Polished. Bullshit. To make myself as small as possible, embodying the voice of another. Wearing their favorite colors. Visualizing their joy; knowing when I found it. Experiencing their pain; healing when they see it. Achieving their dreams; forsaking my own.
I'm alone in my car
at a gas station
eating donuts
at 8:23
PM on a Tuesday.
I'm so sad.
But not really!
I can't describe how
I feel. I'm neither
sad nor happy.
I can't...
Begin to
describe how
I feel? It's better
not to reveal. Really.
I'm happy, I'm so
happy!
And I'm alone in my car
Still at the pump
on my 3rd donut
by 8:27
PM on a Tuesday.
Table brown, watch black.
Phone tan, skin white.
Around me I hear air flow.
Whoosh in every corner;
As it turns to push onward.
I am the air on the corner
sliding down the wall.
Swimming in the ocean
where two seas meet.
Table brown, paper cream.
Phone black, breath out.
Light then heavy,
small then big.
revealing music I made.
Magazines, red.
Down below, blue.
Here I am.
Just a soul of white.
Body of white, crying in white.
Dying to know my value.
PRIORITIES
Nursery walls and ceiling prepped/painted
Bassinet
Crib
Stroller
Changing table/dresser
Car seat
Rocking chair
Patio furniture
DOCTORS NOTES
Progesterone refill - 1 time per day
Do cysts affect the development?
New due date: April 23
Blood draw again?
Is all good unless proven otherwise now?
July 11: period started
July 15: period ended
August 6: negative test
August 6: period started
August 10: period ended
August 12, 13, 14: positive tests
August 14: spotting
GROCERY LIST
Razors
Shaving cream
Deodorant
Dish soap
Laundry detergent
Spinach
Broccoli
Carrots
Asparagus
Eggs
Chicken
Blackberries
Blueberries
Bananas
Diet Coke
Three famished captains.
One lost lamb.
First misguided;
second takes the lead.
Third, skinning sheep —
Not to hide;
just because.
If I'm forced to wait –
I may float away
in the night.
Heavy.
I can’t write at the moment.
My hands are full.
Heads to sniff.
Toes to count.
Backs to rub, softly.
Breath to notice.
Noticing mine.
Almost father beside;
…I find myself drifting…
Toes to count.
Backs to rub, softly.
Breath to notice.
Noticing mine.
Almost father beside;
…I find myself drifting…
Noticing mine.
Almost father beside;
…I find myself drifting…
I can’t write at the moment.
…I find myself drifting…
I saw fire in peculiar places. The orange flags blurred outside.
Drums in the room beside me. Birds chatter in chorus.
An airplane drowns out their song. The one I know begins to scream.
My head feels like a mountain. My crown the peak. Eyes quartz. Nasal caves. My jawline offering shelter. Then a soft slope to the trails end. Beyond my elbows and spilling onto the rug below me. All detached from the hands writing this. My head and shoulders weep in symmetry.
A truck idles. Brings me back.
I lull in the discomfort; music intruding.
OPEN ON BLACK. MY MIND; SILENT.
//
OPEN ON BLACK. MY MIND; SILENT. //
Like overlapping phone calls in the other room. Sweep aimlessly across the ivories–––––but—-slow ––––– and—-unnerving——————————tem po. Tk. Tk. Tk. Tk. Tk. Tk. Tk. Tk. Moaning (not the sexy kind). Singing scales out loud, higher and higher until you hit the note that won’t come out and it gives you a shiver of mortification. Boi-oi-oing.
It’s that guttural sound you make when you’re barfing (the sexy one). Or a concrete mixing truck in front of you on the highway. What the inside of the rotating…thingy…looks like. How does the sludge keep from hardening inside…? It’s impenetrable. It’s bleak. Isolated. It’s relentless and spinning endlessly on repeat, hamster wheel, looping redundancies…round and round in perpetual motion…so it doesn’t completely solidify...
Right?
Speakers vibrate. Frame still black.
Darkness feels like my body. This sack of shit vessel. I mean, what do I expect to happen to me – shoveling sugar and liquor and god knows what the fuck I eat – mini muffins. So many fucking mini muffins. Processed things down my gullet; out my nose, needles to the gut and helpers from her purse. For so long. I’m fat. Distorted. I’m a…what do you call a discarded lump of clay on the wheel? When you’re squeezing it and it’s dense and it’s misshapen and wet and impossible to see as more than mediocre? What’s disappointment with a more negative connotation? Grotesque.
It’s darker than the mold that grew in our first apartment; and the mold I sense in the walls now. Definitely growing for longer than I would share. It’s no surprise the baby left. And all my fault that this garbage-fueled excuse for a nest was so bloated and viscous that my growing-fantasy-turned-sticky-blood-sack can’t even get out when it tried.
Is there a procedure to suck me out of here, too?
The feeling you may have when you read this.
Forcing conception. Consummation. Consumption. If I hadn’t consumed. Consumed. Consumed so much. Much. Much. Ephemeral dopamine with no plan for a future. At my mom’s houses. In those flop houses. In apartments that look and feel like a dry elbow. In a perfectly curated, dream home. So impressively executed. A veneer.
There is nothing. This? Me? Co-lead of an oversaturated, oddly metaphorical diatribe. Am I here? Are you?
Have you ever been; to this void on your own? Does the deafening silence surround you? Shut your eyes and door sla-
shhhh....shhhhhhh.....There’s nothing but us in this darkness. Of this darkness. We are absence and everything.
And suddenly a memory.
RAINBOW COLORS IN PIXELATED LINES TEASE.
//
RAINBOW COLORS IN PIXELATED LINES TEASE. //
Kidnapped, assaulted, misguided.
And far beyond a safe return - you slipped into the sewer; us behind.
Left in the shadows. Frozen. Confused.
I see myself alone; lost. Absorbed. First unsure. Hesitant. This isn't how it's supposed to feel.
Was it safe to bring you into this world? What are my alternatives? There are no alternatives.
Suffering through pain that soon filled every space in my soul (unreachable), my brain (unrelenting), and my body (undesirable). I hurt and I clawed and I gripped so tightly that it became a cornerstone.
Pain manifesting in my words. Spotting, fragmented chunks. In my hair. Sticking between my fingers when it's wet and sliding out in a sludge that I sling into the trash bin. In my relationships.
Suffering, silent—like I did
as I miscarried our pregnancy;
while I questioned a hero
under burning lights
and cameras rolled behind….
“In 2004 I was deployed in Afghanistan. On one particular day, I’d been on the ground just a couple of minutes when all of the sudden we started receiving really heavy artillery fire. And it was coming in like rain. I was yelling to all the troops, get in the bunkers! get in the bunkers! but before i could get myself in a bunker, a round landed just to my right. And it detonated. Eyewitnesses said to me that it picked me up and threw me horizontally into one of those concrete bunkers and I hit head first...
And I didn’t care that I had a million pieces of shrapnel all over my body. What broke my heart was the fact that I lost my joy.
This is as good as it’s going to get for you. You’ve got to stop doing the things you used to do. You’re not the same person. Those words, they scared me. I felt this door closing.And I thought, if I don’t stick my foot in this closing door, I’m gonna lose my life.
I went home and I started researching. I looked and I looked. I was afraid of the answer being no because I didn’t know what else I could do at this point.”
she talked about her tragedy
getting blown up in a war
she shit herself
then ran
hit by a car
then deaf
larger than death
in a tiny package
resilience personified
…as i nod in step
pretending to care
about the pulp
of her grove
while rotting inside
my rind
hot nectar
simmers on my cheeks
and i say
sugar is sweet
Finally the star
I’d alwAys dreamed
of being!
When I heard you were coming; the colors were bright, vivid, pure.
I waited to paint them until we were sure.
Now the water is dirty;
Used.
Brushes stripped,
rinsed.
Then wiped,
then whack, bang,
on the glass, drop in again,
and again, and again,
and again. Tap,
tap, tap, swirl,
After spinning,
now smash,
wipe, slap.
Hang neatly;
no perfectly
to dry and shrink -
Away from gray water,
where the dreams went to die.
Murky,
toxic,
worthless,
gray water.
When we heard you were coming; I was yellow, red, and white.
Now abandoned gray water; no child in sight.
You’re in a silver hatchback in two-thousand-something.
August in Phoenix.
The air is thick - dusty; polluted. But less toxic than now. Clichés on a dirt road. _Kryptonite_ by Three Doors Down is playing on a station _with the best mix of the 80’s 90’s and today_. Your nails are chewed. Cheeks still chubby. There’s light in your eyes. Difficult to decipher real from artificial—but passing. Good enough. Your mother is…confused. The sun begins to set en-route from B to C.
Just tell me why? I really don’t understand.
Scoff.
Eye roll.
Furrowed brows.
Puzzled.
Shrug.
Desperation.
Scoff.
I grab a flare to signal for help. A Camel No. 9 from my purse. Or a Red. Whatever they gave me at the drive-thru liquor store that doesn’t card us. I’ve seen this strategy for conflict resolution before and it’s finally my time to engage. The window opens and we get hit by wave of atmospheric static. Silence; loud momentarily. Assaulting the energy rising in our bodies.
Exasperated.
Exhale.
Head shaking.
Sarcasm.
Detached.
Swallowing.
Searching.
I’m a few years late for Evan Rachel Wood in Thirteen. Drew Barrymore at thirteen. I can sense the Act change, too. The Lead standing in front of grandma’s mirrored-closet-doors at four years old, or maybe four feet high, hating what I saw and wishing I was someone else. Sensing even then that denial was coming for me. Relinquishing my role to a stand-in.
With the companionship of a cowboy killer, the minute following my decision to light up was painfully desaturating. We’d begun to shift from red to blue. An internal coexistence of muddy merlot; like wine we’d never drink together.
Then she reached out. To seek solace in her own pack of Marlboro Lights. Slides one out of the box. The crack of flint inside my lighter (borrowed).
Eyes averting.
Shoulders rising.
Throats tightening.
I see this all in my peripheral. Turn toward the window and punctuate disappointment with a smirk. The adjustment changes the angle of my face just enough for queuing water droplets to dramatically descend onto my lips, chin, then neck. Shit, I really wish I had something to wipe my face so she won’t know what’s happening. A tissue.
Why doesn't my mom have that box?
She cranks her window down one full rotation. Never looks away from the road. Repositions the air vents to avoid blowback impairing her sight. Same every time. The whipping white noise just doubled. Two cigarettes are all the light we need in this darkness.
Right?
I aim to forget. If you don’t understand; how can I? Not about this particular moment:
Why I just got picked up from a Walmart for stealing. When I had $100 in my pocket that grandma had slid me that day.
Hug.
Wink.
Chin up.
That cute smile she does when she’s delighted.
When her own selflessness shocks her as much as it shocks me.
Soft and bright.
Her treat.
Speaking in a language I understand.
Back in the void of a tin can cruiser, in the black together. Between the shared confusion of emotion, mutual death wish with each inhale, and a flawless coping strategy of silence and impenetrability.
We wilted together and grew further apart.
Keep falling. Sobbing in a black hole.
Walk to the car.
Blank to
Finally wailing.
Cut to the bedroom –
poured onto the bed.
Hear him on the phone
Slow fade between present and –
Heart beats:
Thump…thump…thump…
Uncomfortable.
Then stops;
Worse.
She falls further from the light.
Drowning in blood. Food.
It get's darker.
Junk. Sobs.
Him comforting her.
Loving her.
Looking toward her;
Now back
as she sinks.
Then blinks.
Both of my sisters are pregnant. Again.
I'm in a car with my mom, again.
soft cries as we start the next scene
!
soft cries as we start the next scene !
When a gentle light peeks through our curtains, just beyond the branches,
All of our dreams leave.
Our bodies still,
thoughts deceive.
All alone, then
suddenly–surrounded–
Absence, now bright;
Hot. Light.
Soaring, now grounded.
Edges blur, shadows cast.
Pith remains, slownowfast.
I wake here; in the negative spaces,
as morning nurtures those who remain.
Butterflies seldom join me in the gut, but thrive in my throat.
Not for nothing; the same place welcomes this.
I’m desperate, I think
as their wings
flutter, multiply
expand, reveal
themselves to me
I try to cough
or try to swallow
But these
irrational
elusive
evolving
butterflies
dance in my mouth.
a terror keeps rolling
further down my leg.
more piles of blood. tissue.
television, sobs.
no change.
still.
the light gets dimmer.
him comforting her.
loving her.
looking for her
still.
as she sinks
deeper still
I sit here on the fireplace edge. One nostril still stuffed and the other cold and clear. The flames still wave at me, dancing like chiffon. I think. Warm still. Sounds like an airplane. Maybe horses. Running in the furthest distance, getting closer. Like the chair cradled me that summer.
This big, white chair. One of the first things we owned that made us feel like adults. Soft, gooey center. Dependable, stable shell. The worst place to be; sat when it was happening. I knew a baby couldn’t survive what I was seeing. I sat there for hours. Him by my side. As close as I would let him get. In the physical, and internally.
I knew the moment I saw the test that something wasn’t right. Misaligned.
But I did continue to hope.
I sat in that chair. Bloated. Empty.
Dissociating into the television.
What else can you do in a time like that? Just: be. Wait.
The curtains draw and reveal...
You were never worthy! Everyone around you deserves.
I did it to myself; I did it to him. I did this to us all.
I'm so sorry—let me forgive myself. Let me shower you in love;
I sat in the chair, then moved to the bed. Then the toilet. Then the bed. Cry. Toilet. Bed. Sob. All with an undercurrent of fear. Shame. Rot. Waiting for a doctor to confirm the obvious plot line. Forgotten fruits; bright as the fire where I find myself curled up tonight.
Beneath a clue
my great-grandfather painted
of a cowboy,
riding his horse
in the desert,
finding lost sheep
in the pasture.
He cut it to size and rounded the corners.
Stowed away, gallops through time zones.
Who convinced me to paint
my ash-speckled trunk white?
Did you build these traps?
It was the aviators
documenting the desert.
Passengers quarantined;
Out of puke bags
Command, congealed, control.
Take our husbands from the sky;
Poison the fruit in our trees.
Now covered in chemicals;
moist with sweat;
snatch the egg from my nest.
Optimist turns to cynic;
We weren't meant to fly
Keep our mothers from nature;
they're starting to notice.
Shut the windows!
men cry
What began as protection;
became negatives.
Dark, abstract frames
Tucked away for years.
I think it's the doves I hear in my yard
singing louder every day.
As our cells begin to crumble…
I am a weighted blanket.
Cradle; soft
aluminum cabin
filled with ash.
I am a juicy citrus.
Frame; rotten
mandarin rind
left behind
in canyon sands.
My nails are chewed.
My hair is grease.
My spiraling mind;
is looking for peace.
I've reached the mountain top.
It’s the first time since expecting.
The first time
I was expecting.
I was hopeful, as expected.
Naive; when the unexpected.
Now I’m petrified of my own inside;
I’m blind in here and lost.
Feel no edges, handles, levers.
Grasping to my thoughts.
I only feel deep sadness that won’t…come out.
I only feel deep sadness.
I only feel.
The pain doesn’t seem to want to go away.
The pain doesn’t…seem.
The pain.
Every day is tension until agonizing release.
Every day is tension.
Every…day.
Will I ever be myself again?
Will I ever feel normal again?
What exactly is ‘normal’ again?
There is no exit, is there?
Not for him and me.
I can feel that more than ever.
As the sun sets behind me.
Here I pray in my own way.
To go back and move forward.
That it’ll be what I always expected, again.
To be anyone but alone, again.
Trust that someday I’ll be we, again.
Dawn, warm, bloom, again…
On the outside—and the in.
Wrapped in the arms
of a mountain mourning.
I wish I could tell him what's going on with me, but I really don't know.
I've been feeling lonely, tired tense afraid.
I feel lack of purpose and a sadness.
I feel deep sadness.
Why would I be sad?
I'm so grateful. I have so much.
And nothing at at the same time.
I want to feel whole. I want to feel content. I want peace.
I want to join the moment and quit thinking about the past and the future.
I'm struggling so much. I'm filled with judgment.
Who's judging me but myself?
Why am I being so critical?
Who am I?
What's wrong with you?
There she is judging.
I can't even write in my journal without self-assessment.
I feel like I’m always walking through mud or like I have a costume on. Like I’m putting on a play every day and the only person I feel comfortable being my disgusting self with is my husband which is so unfair to him; but I’m just so depleted that I can’t keep it up any longer. I want so badly to be the “on” version of myself naturally. I see her and I love her. She is the real me, but she is so forced and it takes so much energy to conjure her up. I love her and I want to be her.
Isn’t that a beautiful thing? To want to be yourself?
I miss my jokes my goofiness my laugh my voices my dances and I want her here now. Where is she now and why did she leave my body. Did the lights go out? I’m so miserable when no one is watching. I want to be better for me. I want to be better for him. I want to be myself for him and for us. We deserve to be happy.
Is it summer? Is it Autumn?
Does it matter? I have fallen.
Am I dead?
Or will I spring back?
Was this the last chance?
Was I over watered?
Under watered?
Deprived of sun?
Deprived of the light?
Ignored. Smothered.
Was the attention not evenly distributed?
Was the attention too performative?
What is performative attention?
Are the leaves that hang on worth saving?
Are they the most resilient?
Or the most tangled?
Selfish.
Fragile.
I’ll shine a light on you.
Adjust it regularly.
I’ll nurture you.
I’ll comfort you.
When the light is out -
We’ll discuss your survival rate
if you'll ever heal
If the leaves will drop
Or are they the parts of you that deserve permanent residency?
In our home.
I’ll look at the others as I tend to you daily.
I tend to all of you daily.
Frantically
Intellectually
Traumatically
And so does the sun
Gently
Honestly
Lovingly
Selfless is the sun -
Shines despite pollution.
All she needs is time
Let the leaves all drop
Weep for her, but do not fear
water her in vein
whisper that you love her
though she wont reply
and wait for Spring
Calling all Wind!
Rally the Clouds!
We'll tune out the Sun;
Moon thunders, proud:
Don't come near! Wicked, Sun...
It's fruitless, my love
You can’t save me...
I'm down here; alone.
Left, liminally.
Ever-changing.
Evolving like a snake.
Shed skin.
Disturbing,
escaping me.
And so;
I'm here in anticipation,
under my skin;
and crawling out of yours;
Until nature runs it’s course.
I still take pregnancy tests for fun. It's a lingering act of control. I know the answer. I know the answer. I do! Know the answer. But I have proof that anything can happen, regardless of the script! Preparing for a twist! It will never turn out the way you expected. Just curious. Maybe the storyline is immaculate conception? Sporadic. Like Mary. Mary Millennial.
There’s always been a black box in my family. I feel destined to illuminate the contents. I’m writing on a plane. How fitting to be here. Not sure if I’ll end up another of our family lost to the skies. I used to be fearless.
I used to think lightning couldn't strike twice; and then it did for my grandmother. Never was a more reliable conduit. As long as I’ve lived, her cheeks sit high. Always illuminated by a slight floral tint. Her skin soft; it's petals. Stylish thorns all the way to the crown; keeping what blooms safe. She wears the diamond my grandfather gave her around her neck every day. It was taken from her wedding ring and placed into a silver rose. A singular bud extending beyond the top. It’s beautiful. Haunted.
She's beautiful; haunted.
Her life is catalogued by a collection of negatives that depict a changing sky. It’s been collecting dust for years. Passenger among her mother's four. Captain of her four. An airport–rerouting our overbooked flights-forevermore. She ran an aerial photography business with her family. She’s steady and dependable. A modern marvel. Cloud-kissed. To say I worship her seems hyperbolic, but what speaks louder of a higher power than unwavering devotion? What more could I ask for in a guide? She is the ever-present clear, blue sky.
I came into the world as my mother began a red-eye, jet lagged. Though absent, scanning the slides from photos of who they used to be bring me closer to a person I once knew. I feel connected. I feel comfort in knowing that there was life before me. This is just the current destination on a journey of adventure; one I'll mirror in my own way.
A layover; and I'll soon arrive at my final destination.
A Voice Note; Read by Mary
Now I want for nothing
And nothing wants for me
I see you in my memories
And in each tangerine
I feel you in my heart and soul
Your head upon my chest
I hear you when I listen close
Convinced I’m truly blessed
Why do I still run from you?
And run toward the noise
Why can’t I just be with you?
Not interested in toys
To daydream is to turn away
To know, too hard to write
I think of you on summer days
And chilly winter nights
So why do I still run from you…
…When I know that it’s right?
Purging darkness, born anew
Reveal in morning’s light.
Picking cicada shells off of trees
Hot, 1990s
A roley-poley in your palm
When the sea outside
goes from emerald to gold
Dust frosting in a beige fog
Hair in my Dr. Pepper chapstick
Hit the road
Through windmills
Fireplace rattles
Dancing on the threshold of fear and elation
As the clouds creep over clarity
…like the covers would over my head;
I think back to the cicadas.
They’re still there; if tucked away.
More than shells at first.
Still ready to be plucked.
Waiting for you; in the summertime.
Today, my husband
helped me turn
the big white chair
from the black screen
toward the blue sky.
Value undeniable.
Perspective revealed.
Don’t look at me
when i look to you
i don’t need to be read
when i’m turning blue
don’t you dare tell me mine
will nourish like yours;
tangerines tango
concentrate bores
im trying new fruits
grab tight to my hand
we climb trees together
unprepared and unplanned
My husband came to me softly, confronted by the wreckage I revealed; research overflowing in every corner, no longer classified. Not mine, but ours to review.
My guiding light illuminates the darkness, navigating the skies with him at ground control. Reveals the logs. A dimming memory board. Shows me what was taken. One-way tickets. Rotten juice. Unheard cries for course correction. Every negative scanned.
He listens, ready to lead, as I explain a sudden preference for raisins to peanuts. The security of an orange peel, how the sections mirror a memory. How the mockingbird reveals another connecting flight. I trust his vision. He my perspective. Still relieved when we meet on solid ground, no faith in the process - but unwavering in each other, we navigate the open air.
He weathered a storm with me. I chaotic electric, he grounded, empathetic. Now clear for landing, confronted with a fundamental truth.
The truth is a “black box” is not a container at all, but composed of two devices. One, recording conversation, sudden alarm bells, collision. The other with time stamps - marking data with precision; the altitude, position.
The components are vibrant orange, not unlike the citrus in our backyard - a grove once growing lush. Slowly reaching maturity and near death, as is natural, by the time we arrived to remove utilitarian fluorescence and let sunshine replenish. Ensuring their visibility among desaturated lives cut short. Preparing for the new.
We cut the old trees down together. Had the stumps ground to dust. Removed the brush that blocked our entryway, too. Pulled weeds with bare hands. Watered and mowed. Watered and mowed. He filled holes with dirt collected from places we made memories together. Watered and mowed. I observed in awe, learning to spot danger and marking depressions with bright orange flags.
We watched the shadows move as clouds parted, slowly. The grasses turning from listless to lush, reluctantly. Noticed birds flocking to a nest we built of debris, as they appreciate the craftsmanship; admire the absurdity. Together, patiently; we grew as the scent of orange blossoms filled our home once again. Two rusted relics, observing the scene as it fades among warm rays.
He dances with the flowers
of a third tree
proudly in our front yard
Green trunk, blossoms
bright and wild
covering all the citrus trees
in gold dust.
Carried away in the wind.
Returning each spring
more vibrant than before.
We marvel at it together. The tree he planted. Vulnerable, strong. His devotion in full view. A reflection of our growth; now truly mature. Getting more spectacular with each return. Integrating where once was death. Proudly out front, embracing the sun.
Beloved since we planted it here — at his grandmother’s home. A safe refuge. No horses in sight. Providing shade to me and the other tired birds on our block.
You may not see it my love
But I see it so clear
You’re the reason butterflies
And miracles appear
You’re the reason I’ve arrived
Found joy where once was fear
From deep within
Or high above
A light reflecting warm
Where shadows cast
And doubts were born
Seeds will sprout!
Songs will form!
You may not see it my love
Though now I hope it’s clear
Our garden grows
And music flows
When our two souls are near
Sometimes I hug myself
and kiss my shoulders
like they are twin babies’
soft, small heads
…i smile
And when the herd
Returns at dusk —
none will be broken.
As the mother is a child of the plains,
And her stallions—wildflowers.
Freedom no longer fantasy;
We find each other here
in green pastures;
prepared to take flight.
My God is a conductor.
It’s Fantasia in here.
My God is magical;
In the most chaotic ways!
We are the destined storytellers, built to survive pressure, moisture, heat. Two essentials, indestructible. It’s only the Flight Data Recorder and the Cockpit Voice Recorder that will remain. Only as a unit that they can decipher the past. It’s only us. Two segments of nature’s candy, holding tight seeds beneath rhind, who survive the fall. Decompose. Reborn to offer sustenance in spring.
Today we showered in the sticky-sweet provisions of a destination unknown.
My Quilt; Read by Movie Star
It felt good to let you out.
My body is quiet,
mind free from doubt.
It felt good to let you out.
No longer treading water,
Eyes welcome drought.
It felt good to let you out.
Shoulders drop in place,
Fight the urge to shout:
IT FELT SO GOOD TO LET YOU OUT!
I feel the sun shine from inside!
Rays bright! Warm, flicker!
Dance about!
It felt so good to let you out.
My body full of song.
My heart & soul;
without.