here first. until we are there.


Books are piled on my table — ripples of the work i was doing.

Searching for jewels among volumes of voices, too many voices

asking for some time. I bow apologetic, i have lost the luxury

of devouring stories and can only tiptoe on polished stones

hoping to find some meaning.

i find myself putting orange flags on pages

with my fingerprints. like bread crumbs on a

hansel and gretel library. loved poems, remembered verses.

a worn ee cummings’ book has a note pencilled in,

“take care of this ha.” that disappeared, one of many fragments

of a love screamed and abused into oblivion.

the eraser shavings like salves on tiny heart cuts, or crusts of scars that

keep getting scratched open. irony’s hollow laugh resonates

as i draw the white gummy surface over and over

these slightly yellowed pages to redefine

and re-member myself into my life.


i feel like a little rebel. sneaking things in because i love them dearly.


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