too far

the sun shone every day
my mother hid underground
fed the mice, slept in wrinkled sheets
I collected freckles and my skin darkened

black signals in smoke from home
were smudged overseas
every word rang wrong in tin-can phones
ears sent in envelopes
I listened like an ant farm
I listened like a boy


too close

everything seemed the same
some summertime-forever illusion
my mother just wanted sympathy
I just liked the green grass and quiet
impermanence inconceivable it was
always there
there were no ghosts
the smoke was only black
to roast marshmallows on coals
I basked in tasty gooey moonlight
while shadows ate the climbing tree
graham cracker graham cracker
my mother rose, finally changed her clothes
and melted into
home, as it was


in the middle

utopia is static
dystopia too dramatic
I look for snacks to unwrap
I look for black smoke
some virus keeps us all from
sleeping at home
some train takes me
and forth
and back
to nowhere, nowhere, nowhere again
the realtor calls every year on my birthday
I lick my paws
I wait



too slow

like ripping off
band aids slowly
just pulling off freckles with little hairs
by one
by one
skin so white it could be molting
our dead dog sleeping in a tin can phone
my mother carves tallies in her bones
nothing’s gone
nothing’s staying
sand stone foundation swaying
I feel for grass beneath my feet
I feel for my feet
I feel like I am almost free