Within a week

Within a week
I was hanging up his wet clothes to dry
On a line in the backyard

And he
With hands like dirt moles
was digging in the garden
Planting flowers in the soil
For the first time in the last thirty years
of the history of this house

We could hear the new turbines
in the distance
Gathering energy for the old town
They were trying to make new now

I gave up reading
While he was building me a shed
“For all your new garden tools”
Until he put me down in a chair
Opposite of me fiddled through the
pages of a book
with dirt covered hands
Reading the first paragraph out loud
Now you, he said

The fantasy is this:
To be gravely misunderstood
and to be loved
By the same person

He knows this
On some level
When he puts on a clean shirt
I ironed for him
He doesn’t mind


True liesĀ 

“The truth is I got on the bus as a boy and I never got off the bus. I still haven’t.”

— Donald Glover

When you feel grief inside of you

Like a beach ball from your childhood

Turned now to monarch butterflies

Eating each other alive for space

In the innards of your torso
You imagine this protrude: grief

An arrow shining in his hand

Mutating, moving, like pulsating blood and

skin, that wants, wants, wants, to expand


That he can throw

Knowing of its power

Seeing its physical deformity


But grief is not a live thing to the

practitioner of sin

As it is to the sufferer

It is not an animal, alien

He has throw into you

With sharp intent


It is a thing that has grown inside of you

With your blood

And teeth; wide, pearly

Veins thick and alive and ready

And that is how you know

You have life inside

You are not empty

You are life itself