This is for your mother, Kathleen. Even after I stopped loving you, I couldn't move her from my heart. This poem was written when my relationship with words was rawer, but the sentiment is still there. May she sleep in peace on this crisp Mother's Day. The world has been a colder place without her.
La mer a crevé dans rien / comme vous l’avez fait / il y a six ans maintenant
After I tell him I'm tired of crashing / into someone else's desperation, I reach / for you and conquer misplaced loyalty
Since the rousing success of Fonduesdays in December, many of us here in the Bond House have agreed to be a part of other challenges and month-long themes. While Vegan February was left up to the likes of Lark and Brennan (though the rest of us did gladly eat whatever they made), we have found other ways to engage in communal activities. March, for instance, was a speed-reading month, a skill that I was forced to learn in college and was willing to exercise in solidarity. I'll let you the secret to learning this invaluable ability: read things you truly do not care about. This month's fodder? Romance novels.
It is a well-established fact that the House is unusual. Let's not talk about the revolving door policy we have, which exposes us to dozens of people we would not have otherwise met, but instead celebrate the fact that there are so many years between our youngest (currently me) and oldest (currently Josefina) residents. It's been a little over half a year since we became a multi-generational household, and let me tell ya, it feels like it's been a lot longer than that.
My piece "in conversation with yet another therapist i stopped seeing" was announced as a finalist in the Lascaux Prize in Poetry competition. To rank in the top 16 out of 2000 is to realize that I may, in fact, be a poet. The work will be published later this year and I am STOKED.
I am pleased to announce the very recent acceptance and publication of my poem "Passive Drop" on Dime Show Review today. It is an honor to be included in this publication for a second time.
Another year has come and gone, and I have to admit that 2018 was amazing. With 2017 being such a roller coaster, the consistent joy of this past year was a relief. I found myself in this position of, for the first time in years, feeling utterly safe and comfortable--which led to this bizarre experience of being able to flourish (sort of like a house plant that's been replanted in more enriching soil).
After ten minutes out in the fresh air this morning, my fingers are numb. It's that time of year in Boston where it can be perfectly pleasant one day, but bone-chilling the next. Luckily, with the holidays coming to an end, the House is warmed by the return of housemates from far and wide. We end the year as we began it: together.
It's been a while. Life has this strange habit of going fast and slow all at once, a sort of wormhole effect that you don't realize you're in the middle of until you're halfway through your third ill-advised Wednesday cider and find yourself wondering how the hell it's nearly December. The last few months in the Bond House haven't been uneventful, but between travel, events, and the sweet beginnings of seasonal depression, I've been apathetic towards writing. In fact, it took me over a week to write this. But that's my problem, not yours. Just like my daily decision of whether or not to wear my heavy winter coat or to punish my body for a few more weeks so the cold doesn't destroy my soul--my problem, not yours.