my rawboned hunger drags out a
hollow sound as if it’s biting
satisfied with never being
It’s the same terrible appetite
that leads me to believe I’m an
god to whom no one ever brings
until standing, peeled from the skin
at an altar while my forehead
is marked with
uninteresting human stain
I shut tight
those cold marble eyes and feel the
sediment of me— crumble down
face and closed lips
tumbles down from
and leaves a faint
of what the soul
has longed for
The other evening snow began to fall, and there!
The tiny flakes I remembered from long ago—
When I was just a girl who wore a red scarf,
Holding out my wee-girl hands to try and catch the snow,
Because we didn’t see it often, those days were like magic.
While glittered specks floated down, my eyes
Followed one, then another, and another to my mitten.
Small, fairy-like, and I was undone.
Every year at school, flakes cut out of paper dangled
From the ceiling. Familiar patterns, now lighting on my hand—
Where they stopped, just to say hello.
Introductions were made to every snowflake who visited.
I told them they were beautiful.
They would blink, and they would smile.
My gloves were warm and so the tiny crystals would melt,
But not before waving a happy goodbye.
I’m swept back into the moment by the cold on my face.
Now grown, with no mittens.
I shut my eyes tight, trying to capture once again
The faces of those I’d known. That day I promised
To remember them always, and never forget—
Each of their tiny, snowflake names.
Our laughter is found
among the small
It’s the best we can do.
So far away.
It does my heart good
Although we endure as
I can hear your
And you can hear mine.
Lucky to have
A friendship woven
Among the little spaces
Of all those words.
And if you can imagine the oceans
Or seas a collection of all the
Tears ever shed,
You respect the weight of emotions
Without a flippant thought
Of which tears are important,
Or who’s tears are not.
The vast tumult of the ocean are singular
Drops, counted and collected
By the One who directs—
Exactly how far those tears will travel.
Weeping, this far and no further. At some
Point, even the proud mists will stop.
Your deep calling out to deep, wild tears.
They may toss and flood, the mighty breakers of the sea.
Who stills the roaring sorrow and calms the waves of despair?
Waters ebb and flow with lunar empathy and
Rock to sleep the gathered tears, past.
What is it about our sure-headedness that leads us to
Believe we can do it all.
I’m on the top of the world, looking down on creation.
We’ve got it.
Until we don’t got it.
Then watch as creation rises above us.
We feel very, very small
It’s that helpless thing that yanks us into
We weren’t strong to begin with, or very tall,
For that matter.
What mercy it is to feel the weakness in our
Knees as they buckle to the ground,
And feel gravity pull heavy
On the skin.
What grace in that moment when,
Sure of only one thing—