how much I don’t want an 80-page pdf
of reflections and prompts. My old friend
used to say, “I want that like I want
a hole in my head,” and while I don’t think
the sentiment holds up, I do think
old friends do—long lunches, old-fashioned cherry coke, 
a long walk with Fleetwood Mac in my headphones.
No more meditation apps or printable goal trackers.
Preserve my soul from game plans and digital
calendars with color-coded task managers. I refuse
to make another list—not even a summer bucket list
designed to hang on the wall and anguish over
as the afternoons slip away beneath the slow swirl
of the ceiling fan. Give me only presence. 
The slow slice of my arms through dark water. 
Sun-warmed berries bursting violet against my tongue.
Blue toenails and skinned knuckles at the water park.
One saturated moment after another, a neon bracelet
beaded with no pattern-–just the caprice of the next 
color catching my eye. 

You’re handed a miracle
and you spend your days
watching it unfurl.
You try to curl
your fingers around
their tiny finger,
nails that formed only months after
cells from two people collided.
You watch as they suddenly
run up stairs
like they weren’t immobile last week.
You're weak
in the knees as they begin to read
and put you out of a job.
And you sob
when they walk into class
on their own without looking back.
Back home
they wrap you in their need
at full speed
they draw you in
and push you away. 
Launching further each time,
watching the tether unwind,
you see them float into the space
stretching between you.
Constellations form behind their eyes
and you bear witness to their becoming,
willing time to slow,
but you know
that you know,
that you know,
 
this is the beginning of a 
Holy letting go. 

People don't like change
The Trader Joe’s cashier told me
as she offered to double-bag my groceries
They made the bags stronger
she said
They don't need to be doubled anymore
but some people are still nervous about it
so I offer a second bag

I haven't stopped thinking 
About that small gesture 
The way she gracefully communicated
You can take your time coming around to this
Your worry can take up space 
It's okay to take your time
Let me double-bag those for you

The electricity went out again.
A pop.
Thick condensed black
cascades us in and he's
screaming
one long bellow.
My flashlight (phone) finds him first.
I light a match, ignite the wick.
His body softens one degree,
wide eyes scan the room,
held in cautious trust.
I guide his hands through
the taper candle with
the iron loop.
A grin
brighter than the flame.
The house glows,
shadows dance.
Night curls its tendrils around
our home,
flickers warm our faces,
the silent street peers in
for a closer view.

My friend begins every morning
by feeding her backyard birds.
Her day cannot continue until

she has filled the feeders with seed,
until she has made at least one place
in this tired world where the birds 

can come and be nourished. 
The gospels tell us God cares 
for the birds, so how much more

will he care for his children? 
Still, I have never seen a large
and heavenly hand

stretch down from the sky. 
What I mean is, 
enough with the waiting. 

God’s body is your body.  
If he cares for the birds with the gentle hands
of a woman filling her birdfeeders, 

how much more will he care for his children
with your body, and mine? 
A handful of seed and a sparrow

is one kind of sacred exchange,
and here is another: 
a hungry hand, reaching, reaching—

Your own hand, stretching out to fill it,
the Creator himself, alive and moving
among your flesh and bones. 

i. 
Sleep (n.)
A natural state in many living things not me,
reversible, marked by the absence
of wakefulness and a wishing
for the cell phone’s bell again, again.

ii.
State (n.)
A condition or mode of being, as in
your face warm in the early spring sun,
a door opening, then closing,
the reflection of trees on the window’s skin.

iii.
Absence (n.)
Want, expect, look for: reaching 
for your hand in the dark, the cold
side of the bed. A state of not
being present: one body here,
the other there.

iv.
You (pro.)
The one I always seem to be speaking to
through the windows and doors,
one line here, a half-rhyme there,
the words meant to conceal, or reveal.
As in, always trying to say what I really mean.

v.
Demonstrative (adj.)
Represents a noun, such as
the tender skin of my palm, your face
on the screen. Expresses a position as near
or far, as in, wishing you were here.

vi. 
Wish (v.)
Sometimes these blue containers for words escaping
the confines of space and time, thought bubbles
above my head, your voice in a poem. Perhaps
a line—perhaps a perfect rhyme. 

No one will know
It’s just because I’m tired
I deserve it

I’d like to augment 
my reality
And nip away the doubts 
that no longer belong.

Tuck my complacency 
away with the skinny jeans.

If you could, fill me,
with grace and perspective.
Stitch in the conviction
of a mediocre white guy.

Please, tell me I’m a candidate.

Will you have me?

Lift me, 
lift me, 
lift me,
higher.

I hope you’ll always remember that time 
we went for a walk on the trail after dinner, 
when out of nowhere, the sun covered her eyes, 
and the sky cracked like an egg, the rain sobbed 
rivers as we danced down the street to the drum 
of thunder, hearts beating and electric and wrung 
wide open. When it was over, we slid on our boots
and paraded through puddles, rescued worms,
 and made gutter boats out of languid leaves. 
I hope you won’t remember how, later that night, 
I yelled at you because you left your wet socks 
on the floor, and you refused to do your homework, 
and you did not eat your broccoli, even though 
I served it with a side of processed cheese.
I hope you forget the heat of your tears, the teeth 
of my temper, the toxic thunder of every mother 
and daughter. We have no need for storms. 
We always make our own. That is not the point 
of the story. The point is to remember how we danced.

except when The Pretender 
by Foo Fighters is on 
the radio/there’s a 2 for 1 
margarita special/my ten 
year old gives me a random 
hug/the sun sets in a sky 
with just enough clouds 
the whole world turns 
pink/a line breaks in just 
the right place/the sheets 
are clean/the neighbor 
offers my boys Coca-Cola 
and chocolate cake at 
10 a.m/there’s a dog 
in a commercial /I get 
to the last page of a good
good book

My daughter bounds into the backseat, 
all giggles and chatter. I am so sad
again, still, but I put on my bravest face 
for her, for always. 

She settles in and a quiet comfort takes over, 
as we wind through country roads that take us 
home, where I’ve been waiting to arrive 
to let it all go.

Two miles in, I’m startled by an orb in my periphery.
Bubbles–she’s blowing bubbles from the backseat 
and they drift toward me, surround me.
The tears I’ve held all day finally cascade 
but this time they collide with laughter, and isn’t that just life?

Aren’t I just human?

Refrigerated glasses full of homemade 
Rootbeer
Sweat drips down the sides
Like the tears sliding down my cheeks

The pizza comes,
Piping hot, and the crust slightly burned
Like the edges of my heart

My dad grabs a slice and makes a joke
So I smile through the tears
He can’t change what happened 
But he can give me this
Comfort
Laughter
Pizza fresh from the oven that melts in your mouth

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring,
But I know that I’m laughing tonight.

“Embrace gravity as you breathe out." 
So says the online yoga instructor.
I faked my way through her video twenty times, 
with closed eyes but an embattled mind, 
before I realized:
Death grips don't save you
when you're the sinking ship. 
So I started learning to embrace gravity. 

As in:
Letting my shoulders relax.
Or: 
Letting things fall that I no longer need to hold.
See also: 
Allowing myself to sit with the weight of pain rather than pushing through it.

Because: 
Tensing for the next hard thing is teaching my body to expect it.
And: 
Clenched hands can't plant new seeds without a release.
Therefore:
I am free to feel my grief.

Sometimes bootstrap-pulling
is not the cure-all, will not mend.
Some hurts need to be allowed
to bleed, to rend.
Sometimes, dare I say it,
things need to bend,
break,
fall,
before they have the strength to grow again.

Sometimes the thing that needs to fall,
is me.

So: 
I am learning to embrace gravity. 

I sit in the foyer watching my cat. She frames 
herself with light, bathes in it, beams lick her.
The rise and fall of her chest her only movement. 

I skim the surface of her sun-soaked stomach, 
she turns toward me, purrs. I lay next to her, heart 
to hardwood. Let the light wash over me too. 

Rainbow dances on the wall behind us, refracted rays 
through the lamp’s glass base. Dryer tumbles 
in the background, waves rumbling behind us.

My cat? Unconcerned about news cycles, 
the world’s upside down spin, 
the whiplash of horrors dizzying. 

I match 
     my breath’s
          crest 
          to hers 
     return 
to my body. 

Taste
buds
grow
flowers
fruit
bowls
me 

over.

This is the imperative 
I’m pulling 
from the pockets 
of my long-loved, buttery soft
jean shorts. 

They’re just the thing
for melting 
my cares away.

This is the sun-seeking salutation 
for the season 
that knows
tanks 
are tops.

This is howdy, hi, hello 
to all that is
beachy keen,
sight unseen,
hey, let’s be
endless

out here.