Beneath forty
Moons of solitude
I mourn her tides

My sorrow deeper
Than an ocean
Spanning forty skies


Still Possible

I’m in the moment, longing to be the moment itself. I’m fully engaged in the Being-Me of being me, but being me is not enough. I want to be everything and every person I’m not.

Flawed, fragile, fearful—enough! I want to be right now.

Impossible, I remind myself.

After years of sorrow, I accept the truth of my flawed, fragile, fearful self. After years of mourning, I wake up in the midnight of my life, aware of everything and every person I’m not.

What I need, to let go (of) myself, is touch. I long to touch a body longing to be touched.

Still possible, I remind myself.

Rhythm Method

Touches me

I’m inside her
When her baby cries
Just out of breech
In the other womb

My mania cycles
Sorrow despairs

I spill poems
In Athena’s lap
End a sentence with
A proposition

Hips full of mischief
Pique my interest
Loose lips sink
My battleships

Athena measures
Romantic poets
By the girth
Of their verse

Sorrow draws
Short breaths
Mania spray-paints
Sixteen chapels
In a low-cut dress

Hips full of mischief
Pique my interest
Loose lips sink
My battleships

I spill secrets
In Athena’s lap
Squeeze myself in
Big boy pants

Sorrow prints cursive
Mania face-paints
A traveling circus

Athena counts
In fractions

Sorrow grows in sighs
Mania builds
Soundproof nurseries
In the blink of an eye

Hips full of mischief
Pique my interest
Loose lips sink
My battleships

I’m beside Athena
When her baby
Throws momma
A bridal shower

My mania cycles
Sorrow despairs

I’m beneath Athena
When her baby
Throws mommy out
With the bathwater

Make A Wish

As another birthday approaches, I find myself looking at the big picture. Like everyone else in the world, I’ve suffered through–and survived–some rather terrible things. Some experiences stung more than others. Their intensity and duration often overshadow all those amazingly beautiful moments that seem to fade so fast.

But I can’t allow myself to forget the good or relinquish my hope. Depression, by its nature, doesn’t leave the depressed much room for optimism. There have been many times in which I’ve encountered a challenge and thought, “OK, how am I going to fuck this up?” And then I’d find a way to crumble.

Lately, though, I’ve been working to flip my default switch from negative to positive. After all the pain and sadness I’ve endured, what if tomorrow will be better? What if the worst is over?

Don’t get me wrong. There’s plenty of strife and heartache with which I’ll have to contend, but I’m now operating under the assumption that the really shitty stuff has passed. And I’m daring myself to accept the possibility that not just a reprieve of suffering lies ahead, but genuine joy. That’s my birthday wish.

Dog Days

As I sit here writing my blog, our new terrier mix, Luna, is sleeping quietly through her first night at home. Our early moments together have been amazing, and her presence has lifted my spirits.

Yet I can’t help feeling sad as I replay the events of today’s adoption process.

My father loved dogs and owned many throughout his life. One morning in May 2006, as he prepared to leave for the hospital (and struggling to breathe), Dad said goodbye to our rambunctious beagle, Betsy. Unaware of the severity of my father’s illness, I thought for sure he’d see her again. He died the next day.

Betsy had her own health issues, and they got worse after Dad was gone. In January 2008, we had to put her down, her suffering too much for us to bear.

It was, of course, a terribly sad event, but it arrived with a competing emotional force. In the midst of dealing with Betsy’s passing, I recalled images of my father tossing her a coveted tennis ball, feeding her forbidden table scraps, and laughing like a child at her endearing “hound dog ways.”

All of this brings me to Luna–right now–and the realization that in joy there are often hints of sorrow; in heartache, traces of love. It all comes back to family, and in our house dogs are family too.