I’m at my in-laws’ house for Thanksgiving and Mr. J’s mom wanted to put her Christmas tree up early and have us decorate it together. As I was passing her the ornaments (I do not decorate trees–I will hand you things and stand there being helpful, but I do not decorate) I found this strange triangle-shaped creature.
Mr. J’s Mom: Mr. J. made that when he was a kid.
Me: Oh, okay. Some kind of upside down monster…
Mr. J’s Mom: It’s a reindeer!
Happy 1st of December Everyone!
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
Photo by Felipe Santana on Unsplash