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Showing posts from January, 2020

look at me

Look at me. What do you see? Don't be hateful or worse--turn your eyes away. If you're lost for words, allow me to introduce myself.
I'm a phoenix breaking from the burning embers, rising with the ash. The boundless distances I've traveled were wrought with lessons, many ignored, luckily not all. There were times I was brave when I stayed; cowardly when I left. I've dealt out abuse, lies, excuses and overdrew on second, third, fourth chances. I forgave myself when no else did. Still, I stand in grace with love in my heart and an outstretched hand.
Look at me. Who do you see?


a winter's night in full moon

Her mother disliked purple (cloying, base, a whore's color) and slumping, slovenly girls with thick ankles who showed no interest in ballet. Secretly, the daughter adored purple, the deep velvety kind, like dark chocolate on the tongue, like a winter's night in full moon.
Years later and no longer a dancer, the daughter gave her mother a painting. “What is this garbage?” “Mother,” the daughter said, “it's release.”


until a bird

She couldn't stop her mind from racing. The bourbon didn't help. Neither did the walking, the pacing, the twitching of her foot when she sat still. It was hard to begin, to fill the blank page, to glue and paint and rub. It was easy to wish she had never started. Until...a bird appeared. She gave it eyes and wings. It gave her hope.


One Eye

He talks too little and writes too much. I hate eating with him. We're strangers sitting across from each other, night after night. I decide to read an obit out loud. "Herbert Walker, 95, passed into the arms of the Lord on Tuesday. He is survived by his pitbull, One Eye, now available at the dog rescue. The dog is friendly, housebroken, and a fine companion." I look at my husband. "Let's get him," he says.


WIP....Tree

It's summertime on the flats. Flies buzz inside homes, slamming against windows—buzz, thud, buzz thud. If they don't find a way out, their perfect upside-down carcasses will line the window sill. Janie has been thinking about putting the dead flies into a jar. Outside, Tree feels like an old person whose bones ache before the rain. But it isn't raining. Far from it. The heat and lack of water in mid August is causing debilitating exhaustion. Parched, its leaves hang listless like dried tongues. Beneath the surface, roots go into a state of stasis to conserve energy. Not so for the sapling that grew outside tree's canopy and whose leaves are brittle, curled and brown.