In Circles

If I could write my life in circles,
then you would be at every turn,
where I would catch you waiting,
whether I was coming round again,
or you had just begun,
because all lives are like a record,
and all lives with you, a song.

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How to Run

I count my steps,
I lose count,
and forget
how many feet
I’ve tried to step.
How little,
how far
it takes me
so much time
to walk
on legs I’ve
took for granted
and for how long?
Like the cripple,
I am, who waits
for the angel
to come and
stir the pond,
that I might walk,
once again,
on legs
that never forgot
how to run.

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I wanted to call you
with arms
wrapped around you,
like dreams
that were
mine to give.
The word travels
down darkened
the canals
to your ears,
till sinks like ships
into the whirlpool
of your cochlea,
it disappears,
and corkscrews
into the firing
of your synapses,
with breathless,
playful overbite,
with tug upon
the ear,
the mind presses
into memory,
“my Darling, my Dear.”

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Sticky Fingers

was a bee hive
and I,
the hungry bear,
who loved
my honey
with sticky fingers
and buzzing
in the air,
who’s kisses
were like
filled with
honey sweet,
that rolled
right down
into my heart,
my honey
did to me.

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The pain pools
out of me – slowly,
something akin
to the practice
of bloodletting,
inflammation abates
and subsides
like a great
receding flood
the world
slowly sips at
to take up
the excess
and how grateful
all those are
who have survived.

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With Cherry Stained Lips

Between my teeth
I pop Summer
off the stem,
roll it from one
side of the mouth
to the other
and with dexterity
I can still master
pitting the seed
from the cherry
and collect an
orchard in my hand.

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The Other Side

There’s a bridge,
tall and long,
maybe almost
too long to cross,
unless you can
hold your breath
long enough,
and if you can,
and as you do,
you’ll see
how the world
around you changes,
into everything
you’ve ever needed
once you’ve reached
the other side.

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Radio Waves

How did Summer
turn so beautiful?
When most my days
I’ve spent only
at the window,
and round me spins
magnetic wheels
with sounds of
radio waves.
And in the wheel
I longed to see
the face of him
who fills my dreams,
though at a distance
always, and always
I cannot reach –
him, who in an instant
knew – that it was me.

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Walking tightrope
losing balance
site of
other side.
Walking tightrope
tight with
eyes closed
hands stretched
out as blind.
Walking tightrope
better not fall,
tiger’s wait to bite.

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Connective Tissue

I don’t want to be reminded
of how the body’s put together.

Instead, I want to go back
to the days where standing up,
or walking were thoughtless activities.
Where there was no thought
to how muscle and bone
are held together
by connective tissue.
No thought to tendons, ligaments,
and sinew. No thought
to how a wrong step,
or turn of ankle, or turn
of wrist can send a signal
to the brain that the bones
sit too loose in their place
and move in ways
they’re not supposed to.

I never wanted to study anatomy,
or physiology, or to know
the correct or incorrect coding
of our DNA. But I always did
want to write. To have something
to say that might make sense
to somebody who’s out there
reading someday.
To try and explain
what’s happening to a body
in disarray, but instead,
I only seem to wax poetic
in the presence of disease,
and not to make light of it,
but maybe, to at least,
turn it into something it isn’t.

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