✿ Read my piece, "It Was Better to Be Prepared" that took first place in a flash-fiction contest.
glosa-ish
And we were galloping manic
To the mouth of the source
We were swallowing panic
In the face of its force
- Joanna Newsom
i have painted a door in my
house four times now: white dove,
marie antoinette, night flight,
backwoods green. then i stopped
because the green seemed right for
right now. i call my doctor to tell her
i have some mania, my mind galloping.
last march, i took a picture of a
small plant. it’s a long vine
trailing down my hemnes bookshelf
now. i post before and after pictures
of my diys, wait for the likes.
i order a new brand of concealer,
after an influencer’s bright
mouth links to the source.
i write poems on my phone
in line to enter stores. i get a text
that my friend has a brain tumour
in the middle of teaching, take my
mask off in the hallway, swallow panic.
later, i watch a styrofoam cup ride down
a brown gutter. actually, wait. that was
on TV. i watch, face listless, as it's forced to flow.
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song for myself on my birthday
a friend with
synesthesia
told me my
name was
the colour
of saturday.
in my head,
it's tangerine;
like a popsicle,
like the
poppies
growing
in the liquor
store lot
off 82nd.
i imagine
it's like
the stripe
on my cat's
back, his
body an
extension
of mine. it's
bright like
the cipralex
bottle i take
from every
morning. it’s
familiar like
the thick
shag carpeting
the family
cabin, the
gel pen
still sparkling
in old entries,
the tart
apricot
squares
you used
to bake.
when walt
whitman
published
song of
myself, it
was called
trashy, its
self-praise
profane.
what are
you? he
asks - then
attempts the
impossible.
today is
my birthday,
and growing
older makes
this question
less un-
comfortable.
which
is to say,
i am ok with
1. not always
knowing,
2. saturdays
without plans,
3. being
many things
at once.