S L A T E
C R O W N
P A T C H
M A T C H
S T A R E
P I N C H
S P A R K
H E A R T
S L I N G
B L A D E
P L A C E
F L A M E
S H A L T
L I G H T
S P E C K
W O U L D
C H A R M
M A N I C
M A G I C
love notes
a ritual to start the week
love notes
a ritual to start the work week
We lean on each other in heaps
awaiting some savior to file us away,
turn our turmoil and devastated disarray
into a library of broken spines,
realigned and rebound one page at a time.
Compile us, we plead. Come,
pile us. Rake us up like leaves.
Break us, again, if you must. But
remake us so that we may be remembered
together: a collection; a community
of hurt and exhaustion; a reservoir
of survival; a wildfire flicking
at the gates of Alexandria, hungry
and hunting he who would erase us.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
All the good things hurt —
the pain of growing, loving, living
all mere redundancies,
the same ache by another name.
Such fertile blooms, heavy
with pollen and cloying, claw
at our eyes and inflame our sinuses,
tear at our insides so that we may
expand into the fissures.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Leaves stretch to catch more morning
beams peaking out from holdover
overcast that darkened the stars
overnight. You can almost
hear them devour the light. Breakfast
in bed and lunch all day. A monstrous
hunger feeding our quiet
meditations in turn. Feast, my loves,
feast.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
time travel your hand in mine
rumbling thunder harmony
universal truth bitter
eyes where do you keep your mugs?
transmogrification dreams
freedom still but still breathing
inhale space exploration
love notes
a ritual to start the week
black ink on a blank sheet;
closed-eye listening;
how moss hugs my soles;
the streak of sky in my hair;
inquisitive animal head-tilts;
your lips at the base of my neck;
sweat-drenched vistas;
gut-punching poetry;
peat and wood smoke;
late-night cackles;
bitter citrus cutting biscuity sweetness;
weightlessness;
curling incense smoke;
berry and honey notes in dark coffee and chocolate;
smooth cool glass heavy in my hand;
heavy rain;
knowing the glittery shower of peak Perseids twinkles above us even when it hides behind wisping clouds and the city’s ambient glow;
cacophonous cricket hum;
The Sun and all it warms;
love notes
a ritual to start the week
to do: | to don’t:
moisturize | pick at scabs
text a friend | white knuckle it
call your parents | point fingers
ask forgiveness | beg
take a sip of water | gulp
take a deep breath | hold it
take small bites | gorge
leave no crumbs | leave no trail to follow
take a step | take big swings
take a break | work a 10-hour day
cross things off this list | cross things off this list
look in the mirror | stare
share a selfie | filter yourself
light a match | burn yourself
light a candle | walk away
write a poem | write a novel
read a poem | compare yours to it
make a list | live by it
[ ] | finish everything
love notes
a ritual to start the week
Rabbits spring from hats like it’s
the 77th Annual Amateur Magician Conference’s
midnight reenactment of Watership Down,
but what we could all really use right about now is
a vanishing act:
a box revealing nothing;
the curtain pulled back to an empty stage;
the wonder of sudden stillness
and space;
that moment our collective breath catches
and the long
slow
sigh
that follows.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
this bridge’s expanse
wider once but now less so
stitch over a wound
slow revelation
between lines of poetry
of the self of selves
bricks and personas
crumbs left in my pastry bag
finally sated
love notes
a ritual to start the week
What chances have seeds to
unpack their potential,
come out of their casings
and transform, and become,
as beaks nip and claws dig
to quiet gaping mouths,
as winds blow, heat sizzles
and ice splinters the ground?
When facing the onslaught,
what chances of living
to see the light and seed
again, again have seeds?
And still, we have forests.
Still meadows. Still wetlands.
Still towering redwoods.
Still wildflowers, teeming.
love notes
a ritual to start the week
well wishes and penny flips
pens flick and twist into
new loops and familiar doom
eyes droop no room to squirm
to shiver and quip to dish
why fish for half burnt wicks
so peculiar this worm
this hook this line so fine
our morning stretches
our metered sips of wine
so even these stitches
this needle prodding us on
with shoulder squeezes
brief and sincere embraces
raised brows vows to remain
and refrain to stay and
make way for wishes
for eyelash whisps and
repeating ones and first stars
and old scars and eager faces
crashing with fresh tears
on hot beaches cheeks
rising with grins spinning
gnashed teeth into golden rings
reservations set aside time
and time and time can tick
and we can tap it out as often
and as feverishly with new tools
and old as graceful or as faceless
as our winding ways allow but
love — with you I glide.
love notes
a ritual to start the week