Skol

There's a you that emerges

when vodka loosens your edges

 

a you you say you don't always understand

but who speaks certain truths

that are yours

but

less gently

more directly

spoken.

 

When I ask

what you were thinking

you respond with feigned confusion

not knowing

the intention

that's clear to me.

 

You see

loose lips sink ships

and my ship is sunk

 

I'll take that blame on myself

because

I let you

and I became you

 

I ached for the lack of love

and the reminder

of how it used to be

(and

still is.)

 

I have chased after too much

pushing myself into a mould I thought would be liked.

I have begged to be loved

in words and actions

by those who can't

and won't

or do

but muted and dampened.

 

You see, I love you the way mountains push against the sky

slow

steady

immovable

and large

 

and you

love yourself

the same.

 

But there's a you that emerges

when vodka loosens your edges

and often

I'm the only one who remembers

the things that part of you said

because the damage taken,

and the ship sunk

is mine

and mine alone.

 

Elsewhere

I lay in the dark for an hour

thinking about going to see you

a bruise on my heart

from the things I think you are seeking

that lie

outside 

of what I am

half an hour past sunset

my choice still half unmade

I sat up,

turned on a light,

closed the blinds,

blocked out the night

and wrote you this note

I lay in the dark for an hour

thinking about going to see you.

Untold

I've forgotten how seasons work.

I lie in bed and count months on my fingers

AprilMayJuneJuly 

no that's too many 

there are four seasons

and three fours equal twelve so

three months a season, yes? 

"that math checks out"

I say to myself 

and so DecemberJanuaryFebruary must be Winter, right?

but there's overlap, 

and fire 

is a season now 

and three quarters of a month before a week 

is a new season

and the counting starts again

JanuaryFebruaryMarch no that's not right 

start again

start again

start again

what I think I know for certain 

is that I've forgotten how seasons work

when they change

which months they hold

because I'm tired

and all the things I used to know are gone

and I'm left with mountains of worry

about things that don't

yet

exist

and I lie in bed and count on my fingers

realizing I've forgotten how the seasons work

and one day's cold

the next is not

and I think we're still in Spring

you know?

"Our Home And Native Land (But Not Really)"

Red dresses

Orange shirts

Yellow bellied churches with press releases mumbling

"Mea culpa, mea culpa,

but don't look too closely, don't look behind the curtain sorrysorrysorry whoops!"

And still so many sneer "Injins" and bitch about "government handouts"

immune to the truth of babies taken

and their lives taken from them

immune to the reality of murdered and missing Indigenous women

overlooked and

ignored.

And here I stand

seeing some

(not all)

driving down highways of red dresses

wearing orange shirts for lost children

and wondering how why what of the past we will own

and how

we heal from

so much

too much

loss.

Peace

Today the sun stops at a balance point 

for a breath

a moment

a time

and we look to the coming season, be it heavy

be it light

and all the build up lead us here

the longing

the waiting

the time

and time turns 

as does the earth 

without cease

without fail

without us

But today

there is a balance

both short and long

both cold and hot

both light and dark

for solstice.

Blessed Be.

"Carefully Taught"

I am broken into pieces that I don't know how to pick up
I am broken by the all of this
 
the hate
the anger
the intolerance
the division
I am broken by the brokenness 
I am broken by it all
 
we are fighting each other to stay alive
we are fighting each other to stay alive
we are fighting each other to stay alive
it's broken
implicitly
 
too much
 
how do you keep breathing
when there's no way forward
how do you keep breathing
when it's us versus them versus them versus us
 
how do you keep breathing when there's a knee on your neck
held down
held down
held down
 
police
kill
black
humans
 
actively
systematically
repeatedly
 
we train whites to kill children in school with guns
and we train police
to kill people
that they don't like.

Two Hours Before The Hail

the wind brings me raindrops

from clouds not yet overhead

and I watch them hit the windowpane 

while the last of the plum blossoms

fly directionless and free-form to the ground.

 

"It's chilly for April" we say quietly

not wanting to incur the wrath of Summer's heat

quite yet

 

and that wind has bite - 

leaving cheeks rosy with colour

and hands pulled up into sleeves

or pushed down into pockets deep

 

the rain a momentary instance

 

still snow

still ice

still life

to come.