hold on to them babies

quick footsteps


whirring fan, the only way

they sleep

whirring coffee, black and

dripping coffee

the only way i stay


bread and butter sideways

eating, big toothly bites

big toothy faces

its mine its mine its mine

she says to no one

in particular, but to all

of us, funny noises seep out they float

along wood floor planks into ear drums

hear it live it dream it

isn’t that what he always says?

blue sky backdrop flyways

morning praise

clench your fists its the only

way to keep them

new poems, poetry, questioning

the hardest part

Sometimes I’m asked

“What’s the hardest part?”.

A funny question,

with a typical answer I suppose.

Here goes:

It’s not that he left.

It’s not that I’m alone.

It’s not that he’s having sex.

It’s not that I’m not.

It’s the house they’re compiling

(the decorations, the table, the bed).

It’s the discussions they’re having / the memories they’re unveiling / the plans they’re making.

It’s the cleanliness of childlessness… the seemingly easiness of it all.

(Although nothing is as sharp a sting as the potential for life they have at their finger tips. Amen?)


when i really think about it, when i really s-t-r-e-t-c-h my grumpy mind around the empty space,

i twist open my clenched fists and raise my starfish-pink palms up to heaven,

and I find myself free and unwanting,

satisfied and satiated,

at the edge of a great vast blue nothing

ready to burst,

thankful for what I was able to leave behind

In tact, whole and new.