Category: Daily Writing
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Instructions 🎧
for Gigi while I am away / if I die suddenly
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for Hannah
Standing below the Big Dipper and Orion’s Belt (because those are the only two constellations bright enough to see— or, let’s face it, the only two I know), waiting for Gigi to pee with nothing but the dim light of the porch, and sometimes the glow of my phone screen if I’m stupid enough to…
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La Luce
(Daily Writing 095)
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a Death Doula on yearning 🎧
I wonder what she is feeling for, what she is noticing, as I talk at her. Because she is a death doula, we often come to the topic of death, which I find equally soothing as the moment she wraps a heavy hot towel around my neck and face.
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Everglazed
… I see the old couple who have their own Saturday routine. The husband always taps the window and waves excitedly at Gigi, not me, to be perfectly clear.
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Silk Walled World
Beside it rests my childhood bear, which doesn’t strike me as odd. Pappy’s glass eyes seem waterlogged, as if they’ve absorbed a thousand tears.
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my Talisman
And my favorite, a piece of selenite (Satin Spar), sacred to Selene, the Greek goddess of the moon.
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You & Ube & the Sky
You can tell who closed efficiently by the neat rows of chairs, angled just so; other mornings it’s chaos, with paper chef hats and chopsticks scattered for squirrels to drag away.
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One Cousin
I can’t remember anymore. they grew up, two by two.
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Last Nine Days of Poetry Sedation
I left poetry books everywhere. On top of the washing machine and on end tables and bookshelves, not stacked neatly.
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Chocolate Berry-Cherry
because goddamnit if we aren’t being the pinnacle of health so we may be lucky to die with our skin still glowing
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Asimmetria
and I’m apologetic to the spider who must work again.
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Bea
dark sleek hair, skin warm and glinting off the soft purples of the arcade bar’s glow.
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Over Halfway with Sealey
I have about nine days left and I’m three ~60 page books behind. Which feels as heavy as running inclines when your legs are done.
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Seven Days of the Sealey Challenge
I diligently read and became entranced by Heather Christle’s The Trees The Trees. Oh, how I saw myself in her roots and her ruthlessness.
