February 2021

            The weatherman said we were going to get a good seven or eight inches of snow, but as I sit here and write, all we have is rain. I guess rain can set the pace better than snow, though, as it taps on the window, in beat with my fingers tapping on the keyboard, my pads connecting with the clear silicon cover I put on last August. My keyboard covers never last long. I’m not sure if I want to type quickly, or if I just hope that getting my thoughts out fast enough will make this pandemic and this phase pass by with less ache.

As the Pinterest app opens on my phone, I appreciate the ease with which I can search and browse a seemingly infinite supply of thumbprint cookie recipes. 

i think back to when i was little

the freedom to do as i please

now that i’m here what shall i do

reminisce on the past

or stay in the present

why does the present bring such ...

is it my sense of clarity

the memories fading until 

now i must create new ones

with more subjects

but why

why can i not stay in my place 

with family

people hurt too much

there’s so much

pain

but then they make me laugh

make me smile

and i think

what if

Cher Ami

For heaven’s sake, they used your home against you.

They call it magnetoreception. 

Magnets make it better.

They called you a man, and it made it okay. 

You lost your leg, eye, and chest,

And then they stuffed you. 

I want to see you, but I also I don’t.

I’m sorry they stuffed you. 

Observations at the Hospital

You wear flip-flops as your father dies.

I hear you flop down the halls

as I relieve you to go watch.

It is in this moment, however,

Nestled books 

and nested damp hair. 

Warm bread and blood-

bloodied

Bloodied bird striking bars; ceramic skull cracked open.

You could’ve held it between two fingers, that small stony thing.

Those steely feathers now matted

your voice buried in static;

pounded piece of clay, caged squarely in chest, 

a terracotta truth- 

that bird, your voice, this earthly woman,

suddenly in  unison: 

We were here

We were here

We were here

The average color of the universe is cosmic latte—a light beige. Not a dark, swirling black or a brilliant flash of yellow. A warm, boring, in the middle beige. Perfectly suited for Goldilocks. I’d like to imagine that if all of my experiences were poured into a glass jar and mixed like a can of paint, a pristine shade of cosmic latte would emerge. 

Over black, a distant melody breaks through: the SOUND of waves crashing on a shore, an undulating rumbling in the distance...

INT. A CRAMPED, DECREPIT SPACECRAFT - NIGHT

The controls glow halfheartedly in this crawl space. Empty plastic pouches drift, torn open. Some fridge magnets line a small patch of the metal wall, faded, some bearing scorch marks - all their markers unrecognizable now.

A singular skylight softly illuminates the face of FARA (35, gaunt and weathered). She stares up at the faceless memorabilia, impossibly silent.