If we are all crazy women,
Actually crazy. Minds that tricks us, and minds that allow us to create marvelous sketches of the cracks in the walls of the places we have made home.
If we can with our tongues and mouths and breaths describe to the blindness in us the reasons why everything we have made is valuable,
If we can hear the voices and let them know that our voice is louder though,
And maybe we are altos and sopranos and maybe we whisper but it is ours and it is the one we hear.
If we can, crank up the music and feel the pulses in our limbs, beating and convincing, always persuading us to remember and to capture when it was we allowed ourselves to exhale,
And maybe not hold our breaths just now.
When we, crazy ones, are able to stop chasing and simply enjoy what we have caught,
If we can look at our reflections and hold eye-contact and maybe not be the one to break it first, defiantly warning our reflections that this time they would have to reach through mirrors that are not broken and place palms over our eyes because we are willing to see what we are, and
We will not be looking away first this time. And we will not be bowing our heads to her gaze and our faces are cracked and our eyes are old and we
Pulse, beat, and sketch those cracks because
They are there-- but the walls are strong and we have
Made this home.

The women I love, in all the ways--

They sometimes have a brief pause freeze on their faces.

Maybe they were talking about the future, maybe they were mentioning baby shoes, pink or white, or with those lights that flash when they pound against the dirt.

Maybe they were discussing a song, and how someday they would pick up the guitar, and play away the mosquitos while sitting on uneven blocks of wood.

A far away look, like scanning a memory or a hope of some thing and a wondering-- will this be mine? Do I deserve this joy? Am I able to design my life and maybe then they either look down or away or maybe they still gaze into the fire weighing what their minds will allow them to dream of.

This is the kind of week where I know and I know and I know that there is more than just a little work to be done but
I also feel in the bottom of my spirit that I need rest from the barrage of tragedies and
I need to revel in some lovely things.

I listened to him revived with thoughtfulness in his words, and insight into what he wanted with his life.
I sat alone and wrote and listened to music and I
Drove an hour in the dark to hug my love,
And I sipped coffee with honey and I said goodbye to a dear friend (but I have a dear friend).
I spent the morning with my sister and my brother,
I played fetch with the dog, and her loppy ears and tongue and gangly legs all tired and happy.
I turned off the television, and
I walked, and I walked, and I walked.

Maybe once I would have shamed myself for looking away but
I now know
This is looking in.

This is making sure I can raise my head up out of my bed, this is making sure that when I turn back on the news, I can brace myself with the strength of the things worth fighting for, and whisper "Okay. We keep going."

This is the kind of week where I know and I know and I know that there is more than just a little work to be done but
I also feel in the bottom of my spirit that I need rest from the barrage of tragedies and
I need to revel in some lovely things.

I listened to him revived with thoughtfulness in his words, and insight into what he wanted with his life.
I sat alone and wrote and listened to music and I
Drove an hour in the dark to hug my love,
And I sipped coffee with honey and I said goodbye to a dear friend (but I have a dear friend).
I spent the morning with my sister and my brother,
I played fetch with the dog, and her loppy ears and tongue and gangly legs all tired and happy.
I turned off the television, and
I walked, and I walked, and I walked.

Maybe once I would have shamed myself for looking away but
I now know
This is looking in.

This is making sure I can raise my head up out of my bed, this is making sure that when I turn back on the news, I can brace myself with the strength of the things worth fighting for, and whisper "Okay. We keep going."

On being a nomad part 2

I nip my teeth into the flesh of the peach,

Listening while you tell me about how you are going.

I usually leave, but, as usual

I hurry you along and 

The sweet and sticky juice of the fruit makes its way down my chin

And I nod

And you hug me, you tear up, I laugh you off and let go.

You hold on.

"It is time," and I remember I've said goodbye to you before.

And something in this life I've chosen or the people I've chosen to fill it with, I am always,

Always saying goodbye.

On being a nomad part 1

It starts with a tiny drop of a thought. We brushed our hand accidentally across the old plastic globe in the hotel lobby.

We smelt saffron, and tasted it in a recipe we made.

We heard a poem, a story, saw a photograph,

And then.

We tossed and turned, scheming and scheming. Our hair got tangled from moving our bodies from one side of the other.

We saw the time.