I stared at the word
Until it made no sense to me
Just a grey blur on the page
Am I making the same mistake twice?
I didn’t understand poetry at first.

I wish I could trust people’s predictions
The uncertainty eats me up
Vitally I’m 20 beats ahead
Visually a dozen behind
What’s left?
Not enough change in my range.

Stumbling through my sentence
I stared at the world
Until it made no sense to me
Just a blur across the stage.

What if I couldn’t tell you my stories?
I’m just a civilian,
Not quite a lady,
With lace ambitions.


Not even in November


Snow straddles the fence, the treeline, the space beneath our feet.
Three solid sips of cider. Exhale warm clouds.
Blinking the ice from my eyelashes, wet trickles down my cheek. Shivers down my spine.
Frozen mirrors basque the shoreline, stopping jagged, meeting the sea.
The crunch of tires in the air behind me, company unaccompanied.
This spirited hope fills my lungs – once, twice, there goes the car door.
Many thoughts would be wonderful.
Three solid sips of cider. Exhale warm clouds. Exhale joyful laughter.
Keeping good company, even when we’re alone.
Hands are bound to the steering wheel, foot frozen to the pedal.
Keep smiling even when your heart stops beating.
Not giving up, not even in November.




Practice being normal –

I make no sound.

Lying in silence,

the world is not real, really.

Listen for a whisper.




Practice being extraordinary,

I make all the sounds.

Bells and whistles.

Chapstick and flats.

Lipstick and heels.

Baby, we are still young.

We look like ourselves,

just like everyone else.

In danger of being on fire.

We melt inside our clothes.

Practice being normal;

in numbness,