Close those eyes— 

it’s safe—and

my voice will guide us

through our story:

Late last night, I told 

my best friend that I loved them

knowing that they didn’t 

feel the same way.

No, I haven’t looked at my screens for over thirty minutes. I read a magazine. I stretched muscles I only found ten minutes ago. I meditated. But for some reason, I’m still holding the closing loop of the box breath (and no, I don’t have hiccups).

A violent cycle : not having enough money,

needing to work to have enough money,

but being too depressed, anxious, etc. to work.

Obscure period stains with blazers

that drape beneath butts;

cramps with another, more

admissible sickness; and

sweat stains with jackets

that only box in dampness.

too masculine, feminine, thin, not thin enough

assertive, confident, bold bosses, leading groups

can’t ask for money we’re supposed to bluff

miser-fibred with idea crushing, creaming pursuits

Because you, body-brain, gave me my firsts— 

like language long before words—

is it you who offers sounds, words, and sentences,

and then clicks them together like looping linked lights

swooping across lamposts like jungle vines?

Love is saying I choose

your life and your right

to live long enough to fight.

In my mind, body, and/or soul 

hungering for earth’s food

while on fire with anger,

feeling lonely among water life,

yet tired of flying through empty

airspace crammed with interference. 

If you look hard enough…

at yourself, then suddenly, 

you will see the rest of us—

humanity—staring back. 

Could we craft a raft from what unravels us?

When spring sap is just sticky pus bleeding from

angry skin, soul, and stomach, afraid to speak.

Above some, beneath others, I

drift through a breathing, 

visceral receipt: of types of people,

costs to wear them and

prices to become them.

In a separate bowl, combine:
2 tbsps of humour
1 cup of art and music
1 ¼ cup of melted passion and joy

Be still love, I’ll say.

When we listen, all will be

felt and is okay.

Thoughts orbit—

planets alienated from one another, 

looping ancient wreathes 

around a burning, 

untouchable star, 

unable to graze each other.

Today I watched

the sky break apart.

It was indecipherable

There was a time I thought my own

mental, spiritual, and physical shame

needed forensics when there was no crime.

They just needed love, breath, and space. 

Shadows cake the air that trails our bodies—

wool cloaks slithering up

the backs of couches and kitchen chairs,

across the walls and down the stairs.

I imagine your thumbs padding

against the bottom half of 

the glass screen, every

twenty-four hours or so.

Under the full, hunter’s moon,

I microwaved frozen blueberries 

and shelled pistachios

before sunrise.