untitled

This post is part of a series called 100 Days of Poetry.


This is where I’m going to put all my insecurity,
because I can’t handle it otherwise.

I will be honest and true, an open book, as I always have been
and I’ll stop hiding and I’ll start obeying the prompt
to live in this light, this place of grace for myself 
if I can just put my shame on the shelf somewhere else

for safekeeping.

Because even though I hate it’s little fingers of thorns, 
this is all I’ve ever known. A security blanket
of emotional wreckage. The place I’ve always been able to go
and rest and know, through all the ugly, that at least
the reflection was my own.

And here I am, owning it

and not letting it own me

anymore.

hold me

This post is part of a series called 100 Days of Poetry.


tomorrow I’ll bake bread
and make lasagna
and feed people with my heart

I was never very good at the adventure
of teaching someone else how to be dangerous

Reckless at times, they’re better off 
because of you

I cultivate a garden of variety for our lives:
friendships and stories, experiences

the weight of my world always seems so much lighter
when we share our table and eat messy food with our fingers
licking the memory of sage, freshly ground pepper, and butter

gouda and goat cheese, currants, figs and honey
and wine

take me there, where ever you go
on this wild ride of marriage
bring me packages bound by twine holding berries and bread
sit with me and be quiet

hold me with your heart.

dress up

This post is part of a series called 100 Days of Poetry.


that time in aging
when a parent worries that
fashion is contagious

when passion blooms overnight
in dark purple heat

when dressing up innocence 
in frills and ribbons
and budding breasts
goes without noticing
how much sex your body
can hold

we’re in training from the
age of three
to love lace and white
and undercoats

to be ready for the wild of love
but not daring enough to trust ourselves
and listen

It was only a baby-doll tee
but I guess you’re right,
this isn’t me.