Porcelain

On my phone, a voicemail
I still can't delete.
Her voice.
Alive, ordinary,
asking about nothing important.

I cry at the sink.
Rinse the same blue coffee cup
again and again,
as if water could lift a stain
etched into porcelain.

There's no pause button.
The mail arrives.
The neighbor's dog
barks at nothing.

Grief sits down beside me,
gratitude pours another cup.
We talk like old friends.

My heart keeps breaking
and keeps saying
thank you.

There is room for both.
Still.

 

She Likes Dogs

Six homes in seven years.

She has learned the rules.
Don't eat too much.
Don't talk too loud.
Don't cry where anyone can hear.
Say [I]Thank you.
I'm sorry.
I'm fine.[/I]

There are fingerprints on her arms
that no one noticed,
bruises on her thighs
she won't talk about.
There are words in her head
that still sound like shouting.

She does not ask for much.
Not a big house.
Not matching pajamas.
Not a dog, though she would love one.

Just a kitchen light left on.
A door that stays open.
Someone who says her name
like it matters.

She wants arms that hold
without hurting.
Voices that stay soft.
A bed that will still be there
tomorrow night.

She wants to unpack.
To hang her drawings
on a refrigerator.
A family
that won't send her away
when she's sad,
when she's difficult,
when she remembers too much.

She wants what other children
don't know they have.

Her name is Molly.
And she likes dogs.

 

Parole Denied

He remains behind walls
built of concrete and consequence.
I remain behind walls
built of memory.

No guards watch my steps.
No judge signs my release.
Still, I scratch out days
in tally marks.

The door stands open,
I know this.
God, I know this.

And yet
I sleep with the light on,
as if freedom is a thing
I still haven't earned.

 

Ordinary Miracles

It's in the way you make me coffee
in my favorite blue cup,
one sugar, no cream,
and how mornings are easier
when I don't have to explain myself.

Plastic spoons scraping
the bottom of a Ben & Jerry’s pint,
knees touching on the couch,
laughing at nothing.
Cold sweetness,
and the shared understanding
that this is all we need.

It's your hand finding mine in the dark
and the way your voice says
It's going to be okay.
like it's not a guess,
like you already know the ending.

I don't ask for much.
I don't need to.
Just miracles,
disguised as ordinary days.

 

Everything, Everywhere, All at Once*

Somewhere, a glass falls off a table,
and somewhere else it doesn't.
A hand catches it.
A hand hesitates.
A hand was never there.

Every choice diverges.
Every yes scatters a thousand futures,
every no, a thousand more.
The world is a library,
every book read aloud
in different rooms
by different versions
of the same voice.

Right now
I am brave.
I am cautious.
I am staying,
because love feels stronger than fear.
I am leaving,
because fear feels stronger than love.

There is a universe
where words land differently,
where that night does not replay itself
a thousand times.

There is another
where the worst thing happened
and then something small and good
happened anyway.
A stranger with the right words.
A morning that didn't come.
A morning that did.

Grief is happening forever.
So is relief.
So is the moment I almost fell,
and the moment I did.
Somewhere, the version of me who hardened
is tying her shoes and dreading another day.
The version who didn't is writing a poem.
The version who jumped is still falling through the night.

If everything is happening,
then nothing is wasted.
Not the love that failed.
Not the life I didn't choose.
The hand I almost held.
Or the person I almost wasn't.

Somewhere, I am whole already.
Somewhere, I am still becoming.
Both are true.
Both are happening.
Both are everything.

Right now.

--

*Poem inspired by, and title borrowed from the (very weird) movie by the same name. Worth seeing, if you haven't, but it's not for everyone.

 

Sometimes I Watch Him Sleep

Nothing sacred.
Nothing to prove.
Just the simple miracle
of being here.

I lie awake, nowhere else to be,
while he sleeps with the confidence
of someone who knows
he's not alone in the world.

Love, I have learned,
does not arrive with trumpets.
Sometimes it shows up
barefoot in my kitchen,
morning coffee in my favorite blue cup,
the way his hand finds mine
even after letting go.

I watch him sleep,
whisper,
Are you ever afraid of tomorrow?
Knowing it will come anyway.
And the next day.

It's quiet.
Nothing is happening.
Everything is happening.

 

The Fifth Beatitude

They say forgiveness is a blessing,
as if it did not drag behind it
years of drowning.
As if it did not reopen
what you once sealed
to stay alive.

They say forgiveness opens doors.
Yet I stand at the doorway,
counting the cost.
Hinge rusted.
Key heavy in my hand.

If God forgives,
let Him grant me the grace,
not to absolve or excuse,
but to turn the key,
and not let That Man
decide who I become.

Blessed, maybe,
is the one who keeps walking,
even when grace
falls a few steps behind.