Ghosts, entanglement, stars and a fossil picked up from an ancient ocean bed.

My iPhone6 lights up

with texts from each coast.

This Sunday night

I am the oldest child,

in the middle

of my people and my places.

Heavy lineage or my period coming

makes me emotional

and I lay on my bathroom floor crying

Cue the existential crisis:

–Who is this? Doesn’t she know she should see a therapist?–

And once tears ebb, I am

different again, evolved with

a fresh skin that I can’t quite discern

from the last one I inherited.


Then I am writing at the table.

This is odd and perhaps good

because I haven’t been able to

write since I last left New Hampshire

and that was two weeks too long ago.


People keep telling me I can always go home.

People keep telling me things.

I am not listening well

because I am looking for the deer in the woods

and she is not trying to hide,

it’s just that the trees wrap around her like a lover’s arms

so she blends in with he and everything

is so alive, not good or bad, but breathing.

My stomach is pressed to the floor.

I am plucking out the story of something here,

with every ounce of glory I have left,

finding the right space on the

violin string to blare out universal cacophony,

and the heralding of song.



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