What lesson do stinging nettles attempt to teach?

I keep opening the book like my hands

will find tenderness ready to unfold among

fingers as wildflowers. I tried to listen

to the harvest when the leaves started to curl and

wow, did it have a lot to say. I tell you,

there is no shame in turning back into yourself.

This is the way of the world. Meaning,

we must look back on what we started to learn

like blades of grass, the way birch bark curls

uncovering what is new. Do you remember

how you felt that morning. Not the first, but

when you realized we were mirrors to each other.

Do you smile when you catch eyes with a stranger?

Do you smile when you catch eyes with a stranger?

Or have harrowing consanguinity blemished expectations for painless connections?

Creating a story in your mind to quench lonely desires.

Decades misspent until one morning you whoop, "Cue the confetti!"

I'll spend my days loving myself!

Surfing riptides through barrier reefs, cresting effervescent waves of

oceanic adventures. Frequency mellowfied by

sweet froth, anointed by leeward teardrops.

You and me and the sea make three.

Triumvirate! Is this uninvited stranger not cloaked as we?

How curious to implore mercy to a mermaid?

Sea salt awakening childlike innocence, denuding the divine school.

Breathless encounters mere smirky seconds

When the moon phases through its cycle, do you track the tides?

When the moon phases through its cycle, do you track the tides?

I do. Swiftly, with a pen arched through constellation

of me forgetting memories of how a sky can forget

because the sky ages too, meaning

comes, when one knows how not to look up

and tonight the new moon, speaks

with my head buried on my desk — drenched

in the sweat of yesterday's list. What waits

are the longing clouds that scribbles... regrets

are half-moons themselves, slivers

slithers the silver-fingers on asking — how

will we move forward? What can I

reminisce under our stars — Bravery, on-palms

Did you remember to call your mother at the end of the world?

Did you remember to call your mother at the end of the world?

Would you have a word for her now, after a lifetime of silence?

Ambulance sirens I never paid attention to before, now hearing every wail,

Washed-out billboard signs by the highway, to buy a new pair of jeans, try a new cocktail

Constant motion city seizes in lockdown standstill, only the hospitals throb,

You feel your hands further and further away from touch and in that pause

Time suspends in what seems an impenetrable glance to life lived,

-First your teeth, then your face, then your hands, first your teeth, then...

sing happy birthday in your mind while you fully wash hands, taken for granted now real.

I imagine my mother sitting towards the sunset, by the sand, by the water,

I am gazing now out window views cut off from sun, from sky, from street

As if what I always thought I knew has now newly, strangely, just begun,

How many world-ends has she witnessed since you were born?

Is hand washing a different kind of ritual?

Is hand washing a different kind of ritual?

Something that cleanses and redeems us from germs?

We don’t pretend that the belief comes between

The hoping to be safe and the doing

penance. We keep all the air we can hold.

Stocked up in our lungs, anticipating

cold in our wrists, deliberating

What to do when this is all over.

We keep what we took when it’s over.

The memories become artifacts in the libraries of our hearts.

There was nothing to do with the memories.

The flow of the tap water keeps us moving forward

and we leave it on. And you with a cup that you brought here from home:

when the wind picks up, do you feel afraid or do you love change?

“When the wind picks up, do you feel afraid or do you love change?”

Us children gathered restlessly in rings, nestling

Around solemn-eyed Ava, reading from a list of questions,

A personality quiz she’d stolen, maybe from her mother’s magazines,

But sparkling with additions that she must have made herself.

“Do you see ghosts flickering at twilight, or only empty space?”

With great deliberation, picking at my pigtails, I looked out

At all my peers, choosing the answers that would reveal

Our future soulmates. Was I a courageous person, a lover

Of change, a person who deserved tremendous company?

“Would you rather have gills and swim, or wings and fly?”

I whispered to Kayla-with-the-quick-grin, deciding

That what she chose I’d copy, that we’d match.

“Do you think of a response while someone is still talking or are you a violet?”

Do you think of a response while someone is still talking or are you a violet?

She’ll listen, she’ll promise. Yet, she’s thinking.

Is that a Snapper on the wall?

A red fish? I think she has been drinking.

Violet liqueur, likely, it makes her talk.

Broad shoulders and dark eyes? She’ll be winking

like a star between Jupiter and Mars—

he’ll smile, walk over, glasses a-clinking,

crazy eyes lit like the wolf-moon.

She declines his lure for interlinking.

Better to mix yeast and flour and water,

sugar and eggs for a sweet cake baking.

It’s the proper response to any question.

At the end of the world do you make bread or something else with your hands?

At the end of the world do you make bread or something else with your hands?

When bread is the new world and hands are our saviors;

Our tongues flames with a lick of salt,

Reality elongates into fingers, tongues, loaves and salty edifices.

Streets and avenues begin to flow past like Sunday mornings,

while bursts of memories come to life in the brave left behind,

memories that bloom in the trees in the prickly spring,

then turn ripe in the amber harvest,

to bring a touch of warmth to the city.

Who am I then? Who prefers to dream instead of remember,

what the world was before my hands began a new one in New York City

I who see each train car crossing the Hudson as an empty sepulchre.

I should like to no longer wait for NJ transit.

I should like to no longer wait for NJ transit -

the open road doesn't feel like itself when i'm on it.

Unease seeps, floods up from the familiar route,

in the darkness, keep it light: say it's just a mood

and don't let that unsettling sense overpower —

these train track lines on my face reveal all my hours

spent speared on a needle of needless lost time,

it's not wasted if you want it - i keep saying it’s fine

and if you don't want it, well, let's just pretend

it's the light, not a platform, where this tunnel ends

Winding through the dark, in mute anticipation

maybe it’s the journey to fear, not the destination

In any case the carrier comes, and so I expect

to be seated, 80s scatter of carpet

To be seated, 80s scatter of carpet

and looking up at some ceiling of

well-placed gems ready to guide me.

I always knew that constellations were

like gems, a reflection of the state I once was

a long echo of history, time

evaporated, an even distilled consciousness

tumbling out like marbles themselves

Their chaos is joy and will be remembered

here from this ground, looking out

Even if I remain alone

I have the rain, constellations of

the ever-remaining oneness of us

should like the smear of weeds outside

should like the smear of weeds outside

should see it godly in fact, as

a man whistling by, compostable

unlashed from his collection of items

he contributes a "why" to the catastrophe

“Thx” catastrophe says (mouth full) “What

is the carrot for? is this another watercolour?"

is your appetite loud enough to

smile at soup and sandwich? eat from

the people — take its

time to dig out a mandolin’s cave. or

give its vision back, still wrapped

the night rusts my head, outside

the window, meadowlands spreading out

The window, meadowlands spreading out,

there is so much lavender and so much sun,

rainbow arc touched masks strewn in fields to sprout

love? Hope? Anything could be growing here.

Close call reminder: wind blown sprinkled seeds

travel faster and farther than those planted

plain to fairy ferry to green girl's house

its mysteries folded soft, sweaters of the mind,

gone missing...where to find the love? the hope?

That depends on how wide your heart, how open

bleeding tears and fears, a grounded grip home

takes you right here, right now,

to a hot mess monkey, blessed with grace:

I should like your middle name less than my first.

I should like your middle name less than my

first but the bell of it still rings in my

belly and chokes me. It calls me like a

haunting ghoul, rends my soul apart until

barbed pieces rust in metallic memory.

Grief thick and heavy as stone sits deep in

my chest. I want your first name in my mouth,

sacred as holy verse gently humming,

cool as a mother’s hand on the forehead

deftly breaking down skin of my worries

softly peeling back the bone of my fear

and like the soft trilling of the songbird

it spirals up my backbone crooning in

concert or flies at my ankles, running.

through a football field in July

lumbering around the outside track

I remind myself that healing is not linear

somehow somewhere over there

a cosmic thread is weaving its way back

the monarch finds its home

witches still celebrate Beltane

bright ribbons whip with the wind

offerings are released

a bread and circus lay beyond the green carpet

somewhere over there she is still writing

coins were tossed wishes prayed garlands raised

before me a peacock feather points the way

I should tell you, I wasn’t really lost

through a football field in July

I was floating. Don't tell me we weren't

beside the wood together. You and I both

saw what was split open and beginning to rot.

And in your haste maybe you forgot

how the forest falls down to begin anew

every new season of the geothermal

despite your unease. Eventually, we

and our laurels might make it

if the roots take time to seep through.

Until then, though,

I will slip through the steady stream

saying (and meaning it)

I should tell you, I wasn’t really lost

I should tell you, I wasn’t really lost

My inner compass led me on this far-flung journey

Destination unknown, I go where my feet take me

On the road less traveled, my heart as my guide

The Great Unknown is my language, no fear

By no means am I solo, I’m surrounded with love

I see more clearly with my eyes closed

One step at a time, The Universe unfolds

Life, Death, Rebirth, the cycle goes on

Infinite questing through realms and dimensions

As above so below

I was delighted to learn I am the object of your affection

I could sense your presence

when I called for directions

When I called for directions,

Siri's voice

rang

Like chamomile tea and pancakes on a Sunday.

I danced like no one was watching,

gangly.

The spirits dance inside

my electronic superhighway.

I shared dreams with the sun.

All that was left

was the questioning pull of where next.

"Turn left in 200 miles"—

I could follow

or I could wait for the warm of a lamppost.

Or I could wait for the warm of a lamppost

but still, for now, the radiance need not wait up

for I have places to go and people to meet

each of which, and for whom—

a new adventure awaits

a guide: waiting (& awaiting) warming (& illuminating)

rush (& gallop) darkness (& shadow)

sharpen. every. sense. and sensibility.

For I am alive and dancing on a world stage

enlivening, and yet

an unpleasantness hangs over me

whilst grounding into plié, rising into fouetté—extending, supporting—revolutions

always stretching and reaching while I

superimpose myself in your childhood room

superimpose myself in your childhood room

where light chases after darkness

And offers the promise of a new day

my breath coiled into morning smoke

Clouding the delusions and illusions in my head

tomorrow, a wavering flicker

Will illuminate the future

or not. oh, what if? what if

What if it’s all a dream...that illusion I alluded to?

what am I waking up for,

When life is simpler before the dawn

and my eyes addicted to darkness?

I fight to see what’s in store, but

baby blue paint covers the landscape

baby blue paint covers the landscape

bringing a calm that wasn't there before.

Where sky meets water on some vast

hidden sea of mist where I seek to find

everything I have forgotten, which

will bring a tranquility to my soul.

The only thing that changes

is my undying love I hold for you.

Meaning, tidal, meaning what breaks

with the gravitational pull of the moon

is the same as within us. Water,

and sweet warm air cleanses that which I know

this is really all we have, this now.

The rivers gurgle with your soft approach