Makai

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When I think of you,
I think of the sea.

You carried serenity,
even in your later-year
clumsiness.

When I think of you,
I think of long car rides.

You knew how to roll
down the window,
much to our joy,
and skillfully use
your dragon breath
to get more treats.

When I think of you,
I think of wrapping paper.

You were so subtle,
gentle, with your excitement.

When I think of you,
I think of pausing.

You lived in the present,
never concerned
about the past or future —
except when food was involved.

When I think of you,
I think of peanut butter jars.

You loved to clean plates
and containers, always
getting something on your nose.

When I think of you,
I think of space.

You, once contained in flesh,
now embody the stars,
the sky, the particles of soil
beneath my feet.

When I think of you,
a smile crosses my face.

Silver linings

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There’s a stretch mark
near the top of my right thigh.

She’s nothing special,
similar to the rest,
but still catches my eye.

Her jagged line shines silver
under the bathroom light,
distinct, defiant even.

She reminds me of toughness
wrapped in softness.

I trace her sometimes,
from my hip crease
down, wondering
how she will change
as I grow older.

Will she continue to draw
a path along my leg?

Will she splinter into
smaller strands,
like a bolt of lightning?

Will she become more defined,
a cavernous scar in which
I could tuck away secrets?

In the past,
I’ve wished for some of
my stretch marks to disappear,
a nod to society’s
obsession and marketing
around smooth skin.

But not her.
She feels like an old friend,
steadfast. Everlasting.

it’s thundering

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I feel like a kid
when it storms.

I still pull the blankets
over my head and
pretend like my bed
is the only safe space.

My brain likes to make
a list of everything that
could possibly go wrong,
like

the house getting struck
by lightning and catching fire.

I know, it probably sounds silly,
fearing storms.

But it’s the what-if
of storms that gets me.

Our dryer caught fire one year
after lightning struck our house.
I remember rushing
to save all of the animals —
cat and birds and dogs
corralled and carried to the van.

I remember my mom having
what could only be described
as a panic attack
after managing to put the fire out.

I remember not sleeping
that night, listening
to the booming thunder
and waiting for disaster.

I wished you were with me
this morning, so I
could feel more light-hearted,

but the rain and the thunder
and the sirens in the distance
kept my heart pounding
as I drove to work.

practicing life

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Our chemical hearts.
Yours. Mine.
Theirs.

Organs thumping
again and again,
unabashed.

I wrote a story recently,
one about a man
who saved a woman by CPR.

He pressed
and pressed and pressed
and pressed.

She faded in
and out. Her pulse unsure
about this world and
tempted by the next.

He pressed
and pressed and pressed,
again.

She lived
and lived and lived
and lived.

I can feel my own heart now,
steady, unchanging.
2022 tested the limits of it,
as 2021 did before,
and all those formidable years before.

I lived in limbo,
fading in and out
as the world spun
all too quickly.

I lived and lived
and lived.

Looking back,
I’m not entirely sure how,
but boy am I glad I did.

If the act of writing was violent,
I wrote until I nearly bled out,
stumbling with my head
stuck in the clouds.

I hid in a trench so deep
no one could dig me out.

I laughed and cried,
neither emotion coordinating
with their usual expression.

I was we, for a short period.
A whirlwind.

I finished the longest
and shortest period of my life.

I broke.
Then was sutured.

I drove and drove
and drove,
finding serenity within the trees
and nearly passing out
in the Oklahoma sun.

I made use of my brain to hand
connections,
writing for more than myself.

I’m not sure what to expect
for next year.

My guards are up,
like the gutter bumpers
in bowling.

I want for so much,
but most of all,
I wish for a kinder sea
for me and you.

A Rhythmless Body

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What holds my body together?

Is it sinew,
binding muscle to bone
and bone to bone
so I can move in
sporadic directions
with assumed grace?

Is it glue,
globby and messy
as I pour more on
to keep my posture
upright right
and mouth from
curling down?

Is it an invisible hand,
like that of a master puppeteer,
pulling my strings
so I dance along,
a marionette without music?

Is it magic?

My legs feel heavy
and my arms stiff.
I’m moving without recognition.
Even now, I type
these words but feel disconnected.

How does my index finger know
where to go?
Why do I keep typing s instead of a?

I know when someone loses a toe,
their balance is thrown off.
I wonder if something similar happens
with a lost finger.

Perhaps I would type as if my
ghost appendage still existed,
skipping letters in easy words
as my body and brain
tried to reconnect.

We are all just neurons, right?
Neurons firing away constantly
as we try to process every sight
and sound and bodily movement
so seamlessly,
it feels like something more.

It’s been a while

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Queue the Staind song
that plays in my head
everytime I use or hear that phrase.

What’s the next line?
I always forget it.

Oh yeah,
“since I could hold
my head up high.”

I remember singing it
as a child,
naive to the meanings.

Now,
I reflect on it,
as I do with all the songs
I listen to.
I keep thinking that I
stumble upon a song for a reason,
that the lyrics somehow
hold some significance
in my life.

I was thinking about a
Stone Temple Pilots song earlier,
something about the days of the week
and losing someone.

I can’t help but sink into that feeling.
It’s easier than pulling myself up.

I can’t help but smile at the pain,
reminding me of everything,
everything.

I wish for those restful nights
I once felt,
in that funny suite
with the tiny bed.

I also wish to pour my heart out
to someone —
to let them see my layers of grey
and the smidges of blue and yellow.

But tonight,
I’ll curl up alone
as I wait for sleep to come.

The tree’s red glow

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The lights on the tree
give the room a slight
red hue.

Today feels like any other day,
but something shimmers
around its edges.

I know the right phrases to say
as I thank the pharmacy employee
and nod to the other customers in line.

I hum along to the holiday tunes
but dance home listening to
a silly playlist of mine.

I wish I could fold today and tomorrow
into a little origami crane
to perch on my dresser.

I could choose to unfold it
at any time,
maybe years from now,
and reflect on my first year alone.

Maybe next year will be different,
and I’ll have someone to laugh with
under the red glow of the tree.

Maybe next year will be different,
and I’ll be just as alone,
laughing by myself.

Rest

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Today was a quiet day.

I watered my plants.
I organized my books.
I took out the trash.
I danced in the kitchen.

I don’t know the last time
I moved my body so,
with little direction beyond
the desire to not be still.

Today, I was quiet.

It felt good to be alone
and let the world’s misgivings
wash away from my brain
as I scrubbed dirt from my nails.

My stillness shifted as I grew
more aware of the emptiness,
and I descended into a release,

a release of everything I’ve held
inside for weeks now;

a release of dream-emotions
entangled with real ones;

a release of bad brain thoughts
and their sticky situations;

a release of *this.*

Today, I was alone

with only cats
for companionship.

I’ve needed this for a while now,
having bottled up so many things
while the world spun too
rapidly.

Today, I am here.

I am here I am here I am here.

Sincerely,

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Hey,
I know it’s been a while.
How are you?

Me?
I’m okay,
‘okay’ being nearly as
noncommittal of a word
as ‘interesting’.

Why?
Well, it’s been a whirlwind
of days since Saturday.
My brain hasn’t really had time
to turn off.

I’ve been on autopilot,
trying to be as useful as possible —
trying to not make mistakes.

No mistakes?
Well, of course I’ve made them.
I’ve been naive,
my lack of experience showing.

No one has said anything though,
all too tired to either care
or feel the need to point
out my word choice.

Do I know what day it is?
I would have told you Friday,
but I know that’s incorrect.
Maybe Thursday?

It’s Wednesday?
I believe it,
but I hope Thursday
comes soon.

Why?
Well. That’s one day farther.
One day more removed.
One day with more potential.
One day I might actually see you.

Yes. You.
It’s been a while, I know.

The light’s turned on today.
Each bulb glowing like a star.

There was beauty in the quiet,
peace in the unknown.

Now the refrigerator kicks on,
and my light comes from a lamp,
not candle or lantern.

You have to go?
Okay. It was nice to chat.
Perhaps we can do it again.

Have a good one.


and you

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I always loved dreaming,
usually partaking in fantastical,
outrageous situations.

I’ve lived through multiple apocalypses,
assassinations, attacks from tigers and bears, et cetera.
I’ve seen people morph into insects
and household items into reptiles.
I’ve experienced physical pain.

And yet.
These dreams do not
compare to the others —
the ones that feel too realistic
and too present and too possible.

My brain and heart ache
in a way my fantastical dreams
never make me feel.

This is all to say,
I had a dream about you.

It was short and sweet,
most of it lost to whatever place
dreams go.

I met your family,
mom and dad greeting me
with hugs. Your mom and I
talked for a long time.
I really liked them.

And I think they liked me.

I’ve tried to dissect the dream,
and there is one obvious
truth there, laying like
a corpse in a shallow grave.

Maybe it’s simply
a reminder to cradle hope.
Maybe it means
nothing at all.

I could take a guess,
but will I ever really know?