Tuesday, March 7

 This morning walking to get the car there is grey everywhere: the streets, the sky, everywhere.   A woman walked toward me.  As she got closer I could see my name tattooed across her chest. 

I know my mother is alive because this morning the nurse called my house accidentally but once or twice a week I dream she has died and I wake with some phantom pain.

Wednesday, April 6

Everything is heartbreak today.  The woman with the car doors open.  The empty recycling bin. 

There is a space somewhere under my rib cage.  It is weary, aching, like a waiting room.

 I lit a candle. Ate an orange. Wrote a poem on the wall.

Still it sits, still, that hollow, dreading being filled.

Sunday, January 17

I used to have ideas.  I remember having them.  Thinking things, then putting them into words.   Ideas that weren't connected to the people in front of me or the dishes or city politics.  Ideas that came from other ideas or the sky or books or the way two shades of blue looked next to an empty box.

I told a lie yesterday.  That losing my wallet was more of a hassle than having my identity stolen.  The old lady at the party smiled at me because she had just lost her purse or it had been stolen and she was deep into getting everything sorted out.  But I don't worry at all when I lose my wallet.  And when my identity was stolen I thought about who I was and how little it had to do with my finances.  And how much it did.  And when all your money goes away it hardly matters where it goes. 

Sunday, September 27

My uncle Bernie's paintbrushes.  A bobbin of yellow merino. A Moominpappa figurine.

I am dusting frames.  I am sorting change. I am drinking too much coffee because I don't have your address.

Tuesday, January 13

It's hard, these days, to find a thing to say.  I mean to find a thing to say that someone might say something back to.  It's hard to have someone say something back.  It is all too much.

Last night there were six drummers waiting to play.  They each had their own style.  One a little more uptight, another had jazzy flick of the wrist.  One played earnestly.  One without a care in the world.  I was happy listening to each of them.

Today at the kitchen table we talked about words and poets and people.  The sun was shining through the dirty window behind him.  That window is my window, I thought.  I am a housewife with dirty windows.  I should clean that window, I thought.  I know I won't.

I don't know what makes better words or better drummers or better poets or better people.  I know what makes a window dirty.  It is dirt on the window.

Monday, January 12

Trying for the life of me to think of some words that ring true.

Saturday, January 10

Try these on, I say. 

I won't wear these to school, she says. 

The past week she has been tucking her long blond hair up under a cap and going to school as the new boy.  She wears hand-me-downs from her cousins and pants from her brother's drawer.  She calls herself Robert.

I know, I say.  I didn't get them for you to wear to school. 

She expected a fight.  I'm not fighting.  I unzip the brown leather boot and hold it out to her.  She pulls the boot on and looks at me.  I am not wearing these to school.

I got them for running with your bow and arrow, I say.  Boots on, she leaves the room. 

Hours later she is running through the living room, bow slung across her chest, long hair behind her, pink pants tucked into her brown leather boots.  She is singing at the top of her lungs.  I don't know what she is calling herself now.