Miniature metric tons, these little things that bother us. The vintage luggage isn’t worth it. Leave it at the bus stop; run into the woods.

Or so I thought. The news stuck with me all day to my surprise. I feel sad for my mom in the way that I feel sad for our history, for how certain things can repeat themselves if you never make a change. My mom’s dad wasn’t a part of her life. My mom didn’t put her kids first–she picked up the instinct to run. Despite their later-life reconciliation, I wonder if she is sad about his absence even more now that he is gone. I wonder if she ever feels angry–if his death might provoke those feelings. I worry for her safety and well-being–no matter abandonment, it is still her father, and I assume she isn’t taking the news very well. All of this while I am still trying to decide whether or not I should respond to her other email–one asking for forgiveness, asking me to lay it all out for her(as in everything that happened, everything I feel about it). We are currently not in each other’s lives. She doesn’t know me at all, but she is still my mom. A part of me is still curious about a person’s ability to change. And what is forgiveness; who is it for? What are the words and the promises and apologies if there is no action or change to fill them with? Does she see repetition of history? And why did today feel like mourning despite never knowing this man? How strange…to be sad about an empty space.

Yesterday I went for a hike in the park and ended up lost in the woods. I hopped from trail to trail to trail all the way up. I stopped and turned 360 often to admire my surroundings. So green. And oh the quiet. I fell in love with that lack of noise, that notoriously rich air full of new green growing and elderly leaves decomposing. The sound of the trees creaking if the wind blew right, and that’s it. Otherwise not a sound.

And the trees! No media trumps such magnificent beasts. A part of me regards them as my dinosaurs. There were many trunks and branches that leaned into one another, configurations that reflected scribbled origami and sex positions. The way plants climbed and spun around them. The way roots bubbled along the ground, hinting at a network beneath me that I simply wasn’t a part of.

While getting all doe-eyed with mother nature I lost track of how many trails were crossed, leaving me on the top of a very large hill with no other world in sight. It’s funny because I am really anxious about getting lost while driving. I’m not sure why. I’m used to pouring over directions as if I’m studying for a test. In the woods? No anxiety. Obviously I’m in the woods of a giant park so I can’t go that rogue to begin with, but still–no clenched jaw or loneliness. I just was. I knelt on the ground and pulled out a small journal to jot down a few more book title ideas. Being out there took everything else away, allowing for me to really do some productive thinking. A slow crawl of a thought instead of chronic lighting to a clock tower. So damn nice. I searched for sun patches to stand in. I stayed lost for a while.

I dig nature so much–I feel guilty for neglecting that love in the past. It’s in my bones to be out there with dirty nails, climbing and exploring because there’s nowhere better to be. I’m growing a bit more impatient with the world around me. I’m tired of listening to people complain everywhere I go. I’m tired of my own complaints. I’m tired of the green papers and forty hours. Nature is a wonder when it comes to letting shit go. Make time for it. Pretend there is no GPS, no phone in your pocket. Take some peanuts and water. Write it down on your brain when you take it in with your eyes. If you get lost keep calm and enjoy it. Then go left.

My belly is full of noodles and curry. I’m changing the title of my book. It is my mother’s birthday. That’ll do for today. I’m inspired and sleepy and warm. Goodnight.

There is no hitting bottom when
your condition comes with spoons
and keeps on digging.

29.
cheiranthus cheiri
wall-flower

why not right there–off the wall,
wet.
smile tied with
a lip’s width of seaweed sent
to my lover’s pocket,
slipped
between quadriceps.

oh. i definitely dance.

30.
rose lutea
yellow rose

before you left for good
i came to visit
and tore the yellow roses
from your mother’s yard,
earth coming with me
roots coming with me
my tumble of mud and thread.
i came for you trailing crumbs
in fist a little bit of life,
nothing serious.

to your window, saying
listen, listen.
we can get out of here.
we can replant this crime.
the sun gifts a slab of light
on ground,
a rhombus.
let’s curl up
play dead.

in bed
car wreck of limbs
drinking glass bedside
with chipped rim
connected flesh crowded
every tri-state star
sheet knots dotting ends

My hands are home to chains of mountain range, the veins there are Andes, rising with blood for nothing. I am considered strange because of this. Disfigured. My hips boast the Great Divide. Most belts won’t fit. When I am in love, Alps sprout on belly and each tunnel beneath dermis will pulse with my breath. It is impossible to keep secrets–instead of blushing, my veins sprout like highways.

My father was a town crier. He never stood still, never said much unless it was to yell at the top of his lungs. Past the top of his lungs–past neck and ears and reach. He screamed for every hour, every important arrival, every thought that stood awkward in his brain. He shook with his hollering. Hand clenching, tendons flared. And then he would bloom like a rose bush.

When I’m angry, soft explosions take over my elbows and tributaries spread across my chest. Blue Ridge, Pelly, Cayoosh. I bump my palms across to calm myself. I fantasize on the slitting of skin, to pull out the mess. To climb them all covered in blood.

rubus arcticus
arctic bramble

and it wasn’t me.
all i had were broken bones to
chatter your back with until
my dominant hand turned to dust
on our respective shoes
which soon became swooned away
by wind
kicked up between seed and smoke
air that clung to nothing yet
still held on
tumbling

24.

hesperis matronalis
sweet rocket

earning my wings on a malt liquored morning in a house with a ghost throwing pennies. everyone’s bedroom located around the couch owned by the girl who thought rolling her own smokes would help her want to quit. bored and drunk and awake and alive we named sex moves after bad habits: the mailman pants, third avenue, dirty cream carpet and sweet rocket.

25.

juncus
rush

i wonder, often, if it is time to go.
pack bags and fade to anything.
one more page becomes two then five
and the gray is on fire now

there is no baited breath
no other chapter
no other brain
no other sword and sweetness
nothing stops to wave me on
nothing rushes to hold me back

mere digits before dusk
window blinds sectioning light
and skin into parallelograms,
knife blades I can
dip my knuckles in
reaching up to touch–
another button curtseys out of place on your shirt.

late day witness and bird song–
arriving windless
and pitched forward at the hips,
so out of breath i could only talk
with my hands.