These columns
Will be
The death of me
Poorly penned
Cryptic facts
And vague
Summaries
Giving notice
To grieve
And prompts
For relief,
“But she’d been
Gone for awhile…”
My obituaries
-me


I blunder
In the space between
My clutter
Not contained
It slips
From slots
Once neatly filled
Spilled
Random remnants
Remain
-me

In the thick stilted air
Of this almost-August
In too many layers
I once needed to wear
My body she’s boiling
From bearing each movement
With swelter-stacked fake skins
We all want to stay there
But
It’s that time again to
Find a weak spot and tear
-me

Happiness is different now
Sitting gently on the floor
Slowly folding clothes for one
Speaking softly to the tiny soul
Who warmly sits beside me
Sharing just this task, and time
As the joy of nothing much
But mine, swaddles me so sweetly
That I weep for such simplicity
Could you have ever been
So completely still with me
-me
Painting: Wrapped in Silence, by Cheryl Bruce
when I sit I am
saturated over ex
posed never empty
-me

Photograpy by Flora Borsi
You came to me
Smoothly
In a dream soft
Unassuming
And carefully whispered
Of bolder things
To bloom
And I relieved quite
Happily replied
I know those
Purple flowers
I’ve tended them
For years in silence
-me

Concrete spinner
Like a circus cannon
Take caution
When the motion stops
The cleaning up’s
Much harder
-me

I remember love
The center of me
Sliced open
And spliced
Monstrous
Connection
Electrically warm
And willing
-me

Image by H.R. Giger