when i saw the trumpeter blow / the horn, my jericho heart came down, / moved from flesh to fluid.
love
Poem #13
Your head is a Lazy Susan / spinning busy, out of control / like the wheels of time grinding / you down
Poem #12
we linger on your hangnails, / preparing to be chewed away.
Poem #10
There’s something in your sleeping breath / that reminds me of a hermit crab gathering
Poem #8
Wood smoke cannot be contained, / though persuaded to linger / in the slope of your shoulder
An Unapologetic, Sappy Post About Friendship, Love & All That Other B.S.
When I remember my childhood, it always feels like fall. Let's not dwell on the fact that I grew up in Florida and that it was below 75 for about three weeks a year. For some reason, I remember doing arts in crafts in the front room of my best friend's house with a bunch of other girls while we waited for Girl Scouts to start. It's always fall. If that's not a season of nostalgia, I don't know what is.
