a ritual to start the work week
What if it’s a gift — that missing
piece, the one you can’t move
forward without; that reminder
that slipped your mind; that post-it
that came unstuck and slipped
behind your desk; that message
that spooled and spooled and
didn’t send; that missing link
between the day you thought
you’d have and the day you’re
having? Or at least, what if
you chose to see it that way?
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Some days the words don’t come.
You rummage through the junk
drawer of your brain and only
pull out old corks and little bits
of string, a faded rubber band
one use from snapping and leaving
your thumb stinging, a dull pencil
with the long forgotten name of a
failed town council candidate and
a rock hard eraser. Some days the
connections don’t click, a random
hand of cards that don’t match. But
some days you pick up a pair, nines
that were always meant to meet, a
diamond and a heart. Some days
beauty pops like sweet tart
sparkling wine and strings together
like plump carnation heads, holds
fast like fingers around a bouquet
or a wrist or ring. Some days soften
us and etch themselves into our
memories, never to be erased.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Today, my horoscope told me
to do bad poetry, but I’m afraid
I don’t know how. I know how
to do bad penmanship. And bad
focus comes as naturally to me as
bad dreams. But bad poetry feels
like an impossibility, like bad
tacos or birthday wishes or laughter
or love. Once written, once shared,
it only exists in gradations of good.
So I guess the only bad poetry
I’ve ever composed are the lines
I’ve kept inside. And yes, I guess
I do know how and maybe it also
comes quite naturally and maybe
I did it yesterday and will again
tomorrow, but no, not today.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
step one: step
step two: step step
step three: repeat
step four: more more
step five: leave doubt behind
step six: no fibs no tricks
step seven: just keep stepping
step eight: you’ve come so far
step nine: just one step left
step ten: step again
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Who chose the blindfold that holds those
blurry blades at your throat? Who told you
not to look? Who took your quiet and turned
it into an echo chamber? Who whispers
bitter nothings behind your neck, slides
their sibilant lies down your spine to take
root in the gaps between the glimpse and
the grasp? Open the taps wide. Open
your eyes. Flush these illusions from
your mind with insight, with the focus
to find the multicolored complexity their
white sheets seek to hide.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
wake . . . sense . . . embrace . . . frame
. . . praise . . . pass . . . pair . . . share
. . . copy . . . trim . . . sign . . . cover . . .
crease . . . stack . . . reveal . . . release
love notes
a ritual to start the week
The neighbor’s rooftop sobs with
so many fragile bodies broken
by the sudden heat, so many boats
set untethered into the sea. Inside,
cheeks flush from steady strokes
by unsteady hands as sheets tumble
in the dryer, cleaned of so many
nervous salt deposits. A mother
spreads jagged crystals across
the front walk, a feeble flick from
calloused fingers trying to clear the
ice.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
What if we let all these
spiraling hypotheticals
ripen on the vine, watched them twist
and grasp their ways into
plump, juicy possibilities,
futures we could compare,
rate by their weight and depth of their
color before plucking?
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Starts aren’t always fresh
like snow coating hilltops, like
steamy bread billows wafting
from the oven, like bright rinds
and tart juice oozing from
the squeeze. Starts can be
fresh like teenage talkback
instead, impetuous and petulant,
asking for a raised hand, requiring
restraint and deep breaths,
clear heads and clear intent
to resist hand-me-down habits
and commit to their ends.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Hands clasp — learning creases,
smoothing rough spots, tender
and well-oiled — ready to grip.
Grow deep; fly fast.
Seeds on the wind — blown
by smoke billows, licked by
flame — hunker and resettle.
Grow deep; fly fast.
Grids of ground stone — mortared
and pestled by peoples, mapped over
mountain and dale — crumble.
Grow deep; fly fast.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
We were made to create. The shape
of our palms carved to hold
another’s, to cup chins and warm
lower backs, the gentle pads
of our fingers, so sensitive to sharp
edges and hot flames, so ready
to curve around knives and matches,
to etch and whittle, to light and
warm, to slip gently around each
contour and learn each other,
our shapes. We were made to create.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
