Poetry

two cultured,
my mind cluttered,
i struggle,
attempt to juggle. 

There are twenty-one of me

inside of me

One for each year of life 

on this Earth 

You are not carried downstream by a river
But the ocean rocks you back and forth

There once was a boy oh so wealthy

My mother was born with a green ribbon wrapped around her left thumb

I stumble through life like a dehydration-addled ascetic in a desert during the apocalypse

In the quiet nights of winter 
The air sighs with an icy chill 

Monday grips a pen
Neurotic scribbles fill a blank page

You just are, no need to play a part

Names and Pronouns and Sexuality

Can change as easily as the seasons 

It is accepted and no less normal

One bite at a time 
my mother says as it sits there 
in my kitchen 
blowing dish-soap bubbles 
through its pool-noodle nose.