home

light spills
through windows
onto floors
of wood
of laminate
of pink tiles

air
the air feels
good

à nouveau

mon cœur est
un papillon

dans la danse de l'air
et atterrit
où elle atterrit

j’attendre
et attendre
pour elle de voler
à nouveau

~

my heart is
a butterfly

dancing in the air
and landing
where she lands

I wait
and wait
for her to fly
anew

on authority

I know I should move on.

I have; or was never stuck really

But I feel restless, fearless

and the long list of men beckons

waiting for my…

systemic aggregation

Maybe that’s why I don’t date;

too much information up front

too much thinking

not enough doing

I know I should….

…but I’ve always balked at ‘should’

hated being told what to do
how to think

If where I am feels good
why fuck with it?

dark black gumbo

It had been raining torrentially, days too cold for Texas in May.

One morning, there were ducks in the yard. Not out back in one of the newly sprung ponds, but out front in the middle of the spongy expanse of St Augustine. Two young, beautiful Mallards, perhaps a mating pair, bathing. My own lady birds watched casually from the front window, no particular interest in things with feathers. I stopped to admire with them.

After years of drought and water conservation, even our lakes are overfull, spillways Rubenesque; the Trinity has breached its banks in the middle of a concrete city, a beautiful exodus daring man to encroach, and the dam at Bastrop broke, the lake emptying. It was far enough from Houston that only land was hurt, but ominous to see the bottom of a lake once full.

June finally arrived. We finally got sun last week but the heat came with it, and suddenly it’s an overbearing 95 and my hands burn on the wheel on the drive home. Heat. I recall huge cracks in the dark black gumbo we called land in the '70s growing up. It'll be a summer like that. 

Perhaps we’ve grown apart, my first love, the Texas heat and I. Perhaps I'm realizing I'm a woman full grown and some physical labor, though still good and right in my mind, over the years, has become somewhat beyond me. Definitely though, it’s the love bites from the Mosquitoes that adore me, leaving me low, and slightly fevered.

Though not as low as those dark days of torrential rain.

nowhere man

S- says things happen out of nowhere. Well I found Nowhere. It's in Oklahoma.

I'm not sure it's the place where things are happening. 

j'arrive

It’s not an apartment,

a blank slate; you can’t just

drop your things in and it feels like you

walls of mint and lavender

room alit in glow:

door to – star moon moon star star –  window

yard overgrown

I’m startled by the vastness

bring the girls to sleep

door closed; sleep

light on my back to view the room

when waking

plantlings on the sill

dishes drying verticle

on the same bamboo rack I bought

I’m not sure when

unsure of the destination

I’m suddenly here