won't you celebrate with me
the cylindrical universes
that take us through worm holes
from one galaxy to another?

time isn't as linear as we think
celebrate forward journeys,
little stars I see out eye corners
when I get up too fast

won't you celebrate with me
how our bodies move together?
where they land when they stop?

I'm trying to save memory remnants
about my dead father
to save my jaw from clenching
my mind from getting too jam-packed
with information
and my heart from splintering
from burden
to save the breath of cool
that comforts in summer

Don't panic.
Don't fall apart.
Don't eat sugar.
Don't trip on your face.
Don't forget to exercise.

sing out music
sing out change
try to save a life

every revolution
needs a dagger
that starts to guide us
wind to our engines

every revolution
needs hunger

poetry can't die
because we're always thinking

because babies are born
and their voices string together
unicorns with water balloons

poetry can't die
because here I am
and I need poems to live

because birds bring messages
from one country to another
the strongest of us
the bravest

because warm cloaks, sleep, fists, paper

when I die, poems can't
because the sea, the mountains
psychic pulse drops

she wakes
lifts her head
lies back down
turns over
arm on the empty bedside
she looks at that space
runs hand up and down pillow
as if it were his face, back, front
she lies back down

the sun won't watch her with shyness anymore
blinds her
heats her
sweats her from covers
feet on floor, a little cool on wood, a little sore
she's been walking again
she still wanders
not like she's been running or hiking or dancing hard
just walking
she breathes in and out in deep ways,
trying to remove the added weight at sternum's center
coax it away with air

face at her feet
she changes focus, up to the wall
teal sea green
wishing it were ocean
wishing she were shark
something large, monstrous, prehistoric
she opens her mouth wide as though her teeth
were too jagged/triangle/daunting
to close down her jaw
the thought of her face full of splintered teeth
smiles her
brings lips together

after 9
and she's a shark in
sweat pants, tee shirt, tattered, stained
she doesn't look back to his side of the bed
listens to morning summer
breeze and traffic
and with help
from her hands on the mattress
with an oomph she rises
thinking how old lady she sounds
shuffling
to the kitchen
the kettle
filling

looking out window
garden out the backyard forever
the maples, grass, sky
wishing she were up there
swinging from branches
not running into walls
fall down a rabbit hole inside out

looking down
and she's a vulture
hungry
that spells disaster
but all she is here is slow
grounded
stagnant fingers aching heart
ink over hands
green beans and kale for breakfast