Glue
There is nothing in the world my children believe cannot be fixed by hot glue Fairy garden figure lost her wings? hot glue Art project’s eyes fell off? hot glue Slip n slide ripped? plug in that hot glue gun, Mom But really What else can we do when we can’t protect them Can’t stop the horrible things? Is it futile to glue the broken pieces of a ceramic fairy back together? Probably, but I need something to do with my hands Other than ball them into fists and shake at the sky Give me something to mend Something to repair I’ll plug in my hot glue gun right now Just give me five minutes I’ll fix it A little glue will solve it
Snow is a Writer
She arrives in a whisper without begging pleas to behold her beauty through frosted panes. She is not flashy like the burst of fire on Autumn trees or the explosion of Spring’s scents and petals. Her sparkle must be searched for, like diamonds dancing on the ocean’s midday surface. Her beauty is in her stillness the quiet she brings and the way she fashions a new world from the familiar. Her unexpected arrival is like a new journal. Full of beautiful possibilities, a beginning. She halts my haste I cannot rush through her. Time to stop to notice to revel to enjoy the slow. Snow must also be a writer.
DREAMCATCHER
The parenting books say I should have my child out of my room by 12 months, but they don’t know what it’s like to swim through dreams with my three-year-old. To watch her fall asleep with her elbow hooked around my neck like she’s just made the perfect catch, like she’s searched the whole of the ocean for me, hands cupping my face like water. Our hair floats together on her pillowcase – a tangled nightlight swim, and the flutter of her eyelids tells me she is dreaming of mermaids. The books say separation is the solution to better sleep, but they don’t tell you what it feels like to be someone’s dreamcatcher.
After Reading About a Half-Wild Whale, I Think About Half-Wild Women
Surgical Birth
To bring you here, the surgeon cut through skin, fat, fascia, muscle, organ, held my vitals in gloved hands, unveiled from the warm secrecy of my belly. Split open, remade, sewn into something newer, more tender. Every day since, these eleven years, you’ve sliced through my protective barriers, brought my hidden things to light, held my fears in your palm.
Flower Arranging 101
I’ve made arrangements with flowers to emerge with emergency. The soil here is super seismic, firearms have fast legs, the climate is changing out fits again, and foreign relations are sadly familiar. It’s just that the power lifters have such a strong muscle memory. So we must un-rest and un-till until the seeds rise in all variety of peony and poppy and forget-me-never-ever and beating-bleeding heart protest. Let the broadcast exclaim: Sow whaaaaaaaatt if the garden is a mess! At least it’s beautiful. It’s a beautiful, beautiful, beauty full blooming mess.
There Is More To Life Than Grey
I was a serious baby, frowning while relatives jumped in front of me to smile for the picture. I was a serious child, reading books about the Holocaust, while the Spice Girls blared. I was a serious teenager, studying in an empty house after school, while my brother went out to play. I was a serious young adult, pondering the meaning of life, studying psychology, while my peers travelled. I would tell my younger self, there is more to life than grey. You don’t have to smile, but grasp the rich tapestry before you. See the cerulean, the moss, the ruby, the outrageous pink sunrise, the electric orange sun setting in the sea. Taste and see! Twist, tear, take colour in your hands. Nestle colour away like a magpie. You need to fight for joy. It was not made to be a crumb.
Red
I am full of love poems and rage and words that never made it to the page because I was afraid of what you might think, what you might say. This is the curse of being a writer, of being a woman, of being. At night I carve sentences into the headboard, and in the the morning sand them into dust. Mix the dust with all the red ink I have spilled editing myself down from a fucking epic poem into a nursery rhyme just so you would feel fine. "I am full of love poems and rage" from https://www.instagram.com/p/CyEQ7xaRkMh/?img_index=1
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I feel like you should know that I like to play this game called “who wrote this poem” while I scroll and this month I nailed EVERY SINGLE ONE. Your voices were so loud and lovely this month. Thinking about printing them all off and hanging them on my desk.
Whoooooosh 🔥🔥🔥