the queen of afterthoughts

i’m the only one

the puppy won’t love.


maybe it would have been me,

eventually, who cheated.


inside, i think i am safe;

but i just feel tiny.


i twist and turn, a mini-cube

trying to solve all my problems.


you started dying in utah.


the three of us were outsiders;

together, deep in thought.


now you are both gone.


she’s always there, now,

when i dream of you.


this means something.


meanwhile, my girl holds up the

walls; blocks the door, the windows.


her arms are exhausted.


and she is wading into the

deep water of adulthood.


we are december

while we were away,

winter happened.


i came home to fresh

frost on the grass.


we share this set of days,

this slow creep toward


the center of the snow

globe maze. at any moment,


a child’s hand can scoop

up the glass and shake us into


oblivion. her delight is

our delay. in the falling


flurries, i find you: wrapped

in your mother’s red scarf—


holding the hand of time.

we are the child, the snow,


the mother, the scarf;

we are december.




look behind you:

the orchard-lined hall-

way; all the things that have

grown up and pushed out fruit


in your wake; the worn door frames

and door knobs, the sleeked floors slipping

under committed feet, the living point of contact

keeping you both here, resolved—all in, so to speak.


not since those first nine months

have you ever been so

in love with a



we fill, you fill,

they fill;

fill it up,

top it off,

until it breaks—

over and over:

this tiny fist of a machine

inside a bigger machine with

too many inputs and not

enough outputs. our off-

spring crack us open again

and again. we are nothing but

mechanized eggs. it’s not what

we want to hear; it’s not what

we want to believe; but we

are born into it with nowhere

else to go. we stare out the

two portals—sometimes three,

if we’re lucky—and try to really

see: our mother, our father, our

motherland, our altar. we act out

the lines of our code, never truly

understanding the words. the

motherboard is never satisfied.




and the creeks don’t rise

in every dream, a house;

in every room, a hole: a

broken floor, an exposed pipe, a

gaping window wanting to be a door.


at the end of a life, last words

are overrated: i’m so confused;

i’m in trouble; get the hell away

from me. it’s not like the movies.


you better hope you made your

amends, exchanged embraces,

made your love known while there

was still clarity. the last gasping


moments are not made for love.






things are not what they seem; things are not what can be seen

joy ride,

woven women,

diagonal snow like

tiny meteors,

stone sober,

an aura

laid over like

milk, wearing

makeup into

surgery, drawing

cream from a

tree, yellow jacket

of gravity,

a gold light,

a silver bell,

the magnetic shell



you say the earth is my mother;

you remind me that she was there

to make me a mother, to make me

strong. i was a wolf once, and will

be again. many wolves come from me;

this is our tribe. inside, we are great

enough to hold a universe of paradox:

infinite paradigms, parallel lines

running alongside but never touching.

that’s what the circles are for.

we crawl in and out of this pack

design, through the mandala canal,

straight into the mind of god.