Boston Beach There are no photographs Of One of my most profound memories As a mother Because I left my phone In the house (Someone else’s house, a borrowed treasure) And after two days of driving It was cold, so cold, The wind a dervish, Me in a thin
Howdy, folks. My name is Jack. Life’s not the breaths you take, but the moments that take your breath away, I always say, but I’ve stood here so long my boots are startin to ache, and it’s hard to breathe under the weight, the magnitude, the honorary
Ok, so imagine this: you are tuning in to a new series on Netflix/Hulu/Peacock/Prime and the credits open on the State Fair of Texas: boots everywhere, horses neighing in their stalls, country music playing. The show is a high energy screwball comedy with serious emotional integrity, like
I dug myself out of a hole this week, down on my knees past my own depth, scooping rocks and brittle bricks, sweaty shovels until I hit pause: you, calling me chaos, naming my beauty even while I wished it didn’t burn while it fell out of my eyes,
in the new age I found my self lost, crying hard in someone else’s secret garden: softly spaced amongst the flowers and I have never felt so powerfully alone. You appeared, immaculate, grounded down in my least bads and ever mores and you told me all the ways I
the story in my head is you being angry with me, a bird withdrawing her nest, me lost in the catacombs of a billion flowers blooming, my heart an open cup primed for the buzzing of bees, the threat of this pollinator paradise being ripped away by weed eating dreams
this has all happened before: i am waiting for you, growing myself again throwing myself at walls (a vine twirled like fingers, the sound of you in the hall walking away and coming back home, the fruit of us flinging itself into ringlets) while spring goes on singing, unencumbered as
