Wednesday, January 2

When the visiting nurse calls I tell her I am no longer part of the patient's care.  She is on her way, she says, to draw blood, and the other number goes to a message.  This is not her house, I say, even though it is on file as a number.  I will make sure they change it, she says. Wait, I say.  Please. Please don't change it.  It is the only way I know she is alive, these calls that a nurse is going to draw blood.  She calls me honey, you poor thing. Says she won't touch it.  I am going there now, she says.  Hug her for me, I ask.  She says she will.

Tuesday, January 2

This morning the harbor was full of sea smoke rising into thin air.  The house was warm when I got home, warm enough.  I did the things I meant to do: washed a sink full of dishes, swept a room, wrote a poem.  I was thinking of that last cup of coffee in the pot.  When I finally stopped to get it I found the pot empty, the coffee maker off.  I am nearly certain somebody snuck in and took it.

Free-hand embroidery inspired by Haeckel. 

Monday, January 1

This year I am thinking about embroidery floss and walnut ink.  I am trying to slide into the right notes.  I am making new habits to break.

Saturday, April 1

Last night in my dream my mother had become small, the size of a large baby.  Her limbs were curled in and her body hunched so it resembled a beetle.  She was being kept in a little shack on a stone pier.  My sister and I took turns holding her, comforting her. The young women taking care of her and the inventory in the shack tried to get me to initial things in metallic markers:  a crate of antique toys in gold, a bag of yarn in copper.  I refused.

My sister looked at me and said "I don't want to be here."  I said the same to her.  Then our car, parked on the stone pier, decided it didn't want to be there either, and it rolled into the water.

I spent the rest of my dream battling with water, trying to release a cardboard box of snakes and small mammals which had been buried on a crowded beach.

I woke up exhausted.

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.