(rt Moca at Pixiv)
If by real you mean as real as a shark tooth stuck
in your heel, the wetness of a finished lollipop stick,
the surprise of a thumbtack in your purse—
then Yes, every last page is true, every nuance,
bit, and bite. Wait. I have made them up—all of them—
and when I say I am married, it means I married
all of them, a whole neighborhood of past loves.
Can you imagine the number of bouquets, how many
slices of cake?
read more at Poetry Foundation
The wind is strong, the water is deep
My heart is heavy and my mind won’t sleep
Oh can you heal, my fear it breathes
I need to know if You’re the shadow I can see
I wanna run to You when the waves break through
I wanna run to You and not turn back
I’ve hesitated beside the jewelweed, deep in the sevenbark,
told them I will not, not again—
What sovereign lies? What queen in her epistolary cage?
An ochre shotglass empties,
a lantern, unlit, heedlessly shines.
In vain I have opened mirrors & edges of mirrors.
read more at Muzzle
Outside my window it’s never the same—
some mornings jasmine slaps the house, some mornings sorrow.
There is a word I overheard today, meaning lost
not on a career path or across a floating bridge:
Boketto—to stare out windows without purpose.
Don’t laugh; it’s been too long since we leaned
into the morning: bird friendly coffee and blueberry toast.
read more at Poem a Day
Friend Susan Rich had a poem selected by the Academy of American Poets, so of course I had to feature it. Plus, I swoon over any poem that mentions jasmine.
And salt will find the faithless soul
and endless waters welcome cold
and safe and sound
and safe and sound
worn and weary of your home
We have the town we call home wakening for dawn
which isn’t yet here but is promised, we have
our tired neighbors rising in ones and twos, we have
the sky slowly separating itself from the houses
to become the sky while the stars blink a last time
and vanish to make way for us to enter the great stage
of an ordinary Tuesday in ordinary time. We have
our curses, our gripes, our lies all on the stale breath
of 6:37 a.m. in the city no one dreams
read more at The New Yorker
And we’re driving again. We live out of these
suitcases and I’m feeling like that glamour
shines through the car fatigue that we wear
tight on our skin. I’m still convinced I’m
dreaming. We’ve been through a dozen states
and not one of them has been regret. Wasn’t
I destined to a textbook shaped coffin today?
There was a test, right? But now, now
these days are cup runneth over
read more at Love the Queen!
She thought she was alone.
My father had left her.
She’d hum in the kitchen—
she thought she was alone—
her song the sound
a needle makes lapping
the innermost groove of an LP,
almost a screech—
she thought she was alone
since dad had left her, leaving behind
some burnt down trees.
read more at District Lit