the cat is still alive and we are together, still breathing.
i want to delete everything and start over
make something waterproof
and strong as guitar strings
(not too strong)
bonds need to break
to make energy, the season needs
i am not waiting, i am running towards it. i’m so
pre-emptive i rush right past it
i can’t breathe
i want to buy a new purse, new
sinus cavities, new
i want to spend all my money on sleep
My poetry is about finding lost things.
If drinking makes you sick, don’t drink.
Find a clean puddle and dip your cup in that; drink the moon on the water.
My grandmother never wanted my grandfather to leave (he was an alcoholic). She had one sister who thought she was prettier than everyone else. Her grave has dead plants on it. And pink marble.
My poetry is about falling across the road as a bloody smear and making a new boundary, a new border.
My poetry is about an imaginary map.
Borders blur and the ink runs when it rains.
Wild roses are my favorite. The ones with all their petals falling off and thorns everywhere.
My poetry is about rotting and returning to the earth.
This post is inspired by Bhanu Kapil’s Blog