I stand

In the burgeoning darkness of my sister’s yard; with

The phone pressed tight against my ear

My body coiled as I listen intently to the voice on the other end


They stand

               huddled around me

The glow of the phone illuminates my face

Daughter, sister, niece waiting anxiously

For the call to end


I reach

               behind me, seeking

With my free hand

Frantically seeking his solidity

To prop me up


I pause

               Gathering my courage close

I let them enjoy the final moment of living

In a world mom still inhabits


I choke

               On the words, slipping

From my mouth

As I shatter their world with my grief

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Droopy and weary I am evicted from my nest
warm and feathery, soft

I sigh, goodbye
​as it resumes it’s slumbering solitude

I leave with animosity
​Begrudging every moment we are forced to be apart

That I’m forced to don my mask of humanity
​and slip unnoticed through the crowd

Darting and weaving I navigate the swarm of conformity

I am them
They are me

Thinking, therefore being
​I live an internal existence at odds with my outward demeanor

Living proof that you should never judge a book by its cover

I shudder at the crush of souls
​the human cacophony overwhelms my sanity

Tethered lightly by a frayed string
​the knot slips perilously

Straining against the onslaught of my demons

Longing for my feathered nest
​uncoupled from the world, I rest

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A poem about snow

Giant snowflakes fall
From the sky, plump and lazy
What the fuck, sky dude? Shit is crazy

For those of us trapped in the snow globe of New England

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State of grace

We gathered beneath the bridge created by the wide granite stairs

To plan our lazy summer nights as we sat on milk crates pilfered from stores long since shuttered and drinking discount wine from takeaway cups

A nod, a glance, a budding romance

We fell in and out of love to the sounds of Friday night basketball games and foreigner blaring from tinny car radios

A breath hitched high in your chest, as the flush of desire beat relentlessly in your breast, loosening your gait, your hair tossed carelessly, calculated to enchant as hips swung in a choreographed dance that we couldn’t possibly understand but nevertheless knew the first rudimentary steps

We lived then in a state of grace strengthened by the carelessness of our youth

We worried about dances and drinking and being caught in our attempts to run free and the punishment that would be imposed as we sought to be unique and somehow the same

The terrifying moment when his hand slips beneath your shirt to caress the small of your back as you simultaneously lean in and back away seeking the courage to say no, or yes

Never really understanding the ramifications of the question left unasked just seeking and grasping and trying to be heard even if only for that moment where you are poised between the innocence of youth and a woman’s desire

The act of being was our poetry even as we didn’t understand the importance of our futures, didn’t know we could question the world

And sometimes we settled for the only answer we could understand, a kiss to quell the loneliness that invaded your soul which was so very afraid to live life alone.

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Of dirt and other things

The smell of dirt reminds me of thunderstorms and summer rain, of mud pies and peals of laughter, of matchbox cars and games of jacks, of time spent under the canopy of trees near Newfound Lake, sharp and pungent and filled with moss and decaying leaves, of clear well water and sap-encrusted pine trees

Cool breezes and marshmallow roasts, of faces warmed by open fires and sparklers dancing in the warm night air, of sitting at the picnic table making perfume and laughing as only young girls can, of rolling down the hills at the sugar bowl, leaves entwined in long blond hair, of whiskey and sloe gin and boys that taught us how to kiss, of missing those who have gone away

The bandstand at the pond, of names carved into wooden seats connected by rough formed hearts, and the earnest promises to never part, of all the friends I have known, and all the boys I kissed

The smell of dirt reminds me of home

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Moments in time

I love the quiet moments

The minutes carved from the day where I can luxuriate in the silence, to

Hear my inner voice clearly without having to compete against the din of the world, and

Reconnect the inner me with the me I present to the world

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Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche

I love everything about this


Originally found:


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