My swollen, aching  stomach is no place to raise  a child made from scratch. 

hair that stands to greet the brightness of the morning with joy of its own — that’s the only kind of style I’ll rock for a while to feel right at home.  a pile of green frizz wild, free, and loud as can be, that’s how my hair is. it didn’t just wake me from…

Like sitting on top of a pile of mixed clean and soiled laundry, waiting for an outfit to wrap itself around me so I can start my day — I’m an undressed mess of stories, some need folding and some need sorting, and I’m too tired of naked waiting to tell the difference.  My ideas used…

you’ve nothing to prove except that your lungs can still open, close, and fill and empty and fill,  fuel and drain and over again, like always.

morning busy bird, we both wait to greet the sun —  think he’ll be up soon? we’re both warming up our voices in chilled, blue-gray  a.m. starts and stops. wonder if my words squeak out thin as yours this time of day, little bird.  no way to find out. mine are the only waking words…

Boy, funny how small you looked on the doctor’s floor  sleeping still for good.  Boy, both ears folded against your big, black Pit face tuned us out for good.   Boy, your huge, leathered paws don’t fill easy now they’ve stopped walking for good.

Blue-gray morning cold painted across my backyard canvas far too soon.  Sunrise hid behind thinning clouds and hurried time, and today began with a rush of broken peace, a flurry of stress released onto a blank page.

Oh, I remember sending you home like package returned to sender, sent back like a gift unopened, still wrapped, unheld. How could I have known?  You would’ve been nine,  And you would’ve been mine, and  We would’ve been fine. 

Life is bittersweet. Life is cute, if incomplete. Life with dogs? A treat.

He grows sunflowers in the summertime, because my garden is bare. I cradle my dog before her bedtime, because  his seeds never bloom. We dream adventures and flying away, because our nest stays empty. My hands rest in his firm fist while we sleep, because  he’s still holding hope.