The sun does so much for my soul.

Holds me everywhere and I am a whole

for a moment, all the goodness of the world

is mine.

marina

we bonded over both wanting to be mothers

perhaps it is a silly thing given we are not yet mothers

will not be for sometime, may never become them

this morning I cut roots for my tea

orange and yellow, earthy

it soothes me to think there is something I can do to help myself

I wonder why there were no masters programs for writing or art 

why we continue to undervalue such things

why we perpetuate the idea that they are not successful by not giving them money

flicking on the stove for the tea to boil

thinking there may be a time when I no longer write words to music

let them spill out with only their own sounds to defend them

Do you think the band ending means the end of music for you? Claudia asked in the park

You said No immediately, but what meant you meant was: kind of, maybe.

this morning, reaching for a pen,

feeling the old familiar feeling

a poem growing inside of me, 

like a child.

"as your grandmother would say," your mother says

what is it right now that you are unable to swallow?

the question hits you in the chest even though it is so obvious

(the question that is, not the answer)

the answer is everything

the answer is

    time

    life

    death    daily tragedies

                the impermanence of beauty

                uncertainty

like a pot on the stove

forgotten

                you are waiting for it to 

                                                       boil over

                that is the lump in your throat

                        that causes you fear

living in the past and the present and the future

            the thin line between what is real and what is not

the power we have to define this

                        the weakness we have in its face

the pepto bismol is so pink

in your hand

                    "you can take some, but I don't think it'll do you any good"

your mother says.

i.

 silly girl, how could you think you were alone

when you are surrounded by plants, living

plants giving you air, taking in your toxic waste

with each exhale loving you and making your life

possible.

ii.

foolishly you forget that you are not the center of the universe

iii.

how could you expect to not feel loneliness? to not have days

weeks maybe even years where you felt sadness (hopefully not 

years) you who has always been so

sensitive

vi.

yet even your skin even your breath even your thoughts even your mind

even your feet even your fingers even your fingernails even your bellybutton

even your tongue even your blood even your words even your tone even the way you

look at people has come to you from other people

you are made of other people of other things living and non living 

millions of other things

v.

it is the way you choose to look at the world that is your own.

fingernails (from 10/23/16)

 i once read a story on the train

about a woman and her lover

with dirty fingernails

she said she couldn’t explain it

she wanted to feel 

the way a hangnail feels

when thrust into the darkness

like a seed.

that day when i got home

i took a tweezer and each grain beneath each bed.

the dandelions sprouted first

each leaf left inky shadows on my stomach

small covered paths for ants or eyes to wander 

the blossoms curved around my nose 

and pressed their wispy petals to my cheeks

my skin abloom with pink, with orange-red

the roots criss-crossed my soles like veins 

and quivered with each heart-beat.

i left my suit of armor made of nails  

it clanged against the bedroom’s wooden floor

the earth beneath each crescent moon too large 

to fit the whole of me

all thrust into the darkness

like a 

seed.

my heart is the storm  

with dirt on my knees 

some news is too much to hold 

I turn into rain  

~~~

mi corazón es la tormenta  

tierra rodillas 

no aguanto la nueva 

vuelvo en lluvia

this is what it's about isn't it?

children grow inside us like daffodils

unfurling making life

this is what it is about, you

on the sidewalk wondering about your own opinion, you

not realizing that

daffodils can grow inside my stomach

that i can pick them if i want to that

you do not get to choose if they flower or if they choke me

this is what it is all about

changed lives (not yours)

this is what it is all about

your morality making a decision that determines someone else's existence (not yours)

this is what it is all about

i am not made

to make children

that is not my only purpose

this is what it is all about

we are past should 

we are past maybe if

we are at the point with fingers on the stem

do you not think i know it is painful to pick?

do you think any of this is to say, it is easy

you did not see her body as it curved

into his in the stairwell

you did not see her bent head like the 

drooping head of a daffodil

you did not see the other life she chose for herself

you did not see the other life she was given

you did not see her bloom

this is what it is all about.

outside my window

the birds chirp so loud

screaming with laughter

yelling at each other

heckling going about their business buying seeds

on the corner from one house to another

from one alcove to another

letting themselves sing