little things

Reflecting on My Metaphor

i am a typewriter and someone else is pressing the keys

i am a match that won’t light

i am yarn, frayed and unraveling

i am glue that never dries

i am words written backwards

i am a stone that can’t skip

i am lukewarm coffee

i am a pen out of ink

i am an empty spool of thread

i am a threadbare sweater

i am a left sock without a right

i am a flower, always wilting

i am written in an unspoken language

i am all consonants and no vowels

i am a broken vase, not yet mended with gold

i am a butterfly with broken wings

i am an owl without voice

i am loaded scales with no counter weights

Hypoallergenic Poetry

I understand now
why we take photos
or write a memory down.
It’s because of fear;
fear that no moment
will ever be as beautiful
as this one.

But it’s a lie.
Every moment is beautiful,
each could be better
than the one before it.
If we look for it,
we’ll see it’s there.

It’s in the gluten-free chalk dust
that J says is “powerful.”
It’s in the way R stretched
on Tuesday when he was comfortable enough.
It’s in T’s favorite sentence,
“Here you go.”
It’s in this purple maxi dress
that I wore to bring a baby home.

It’s in my pen as I write
and later in my keyboard.

Every Moment

Angry songs and loud passengers.
Another Saturday to live.
But it’s all beautiful today.
The cute bus driver with the tattoos,
I wonder how his story goes.

Sidewalk chalk and diecast cars,
little shirts to tie dye,
tote bags with favorite characters.
Shopping for little things and little ones.

Movies by myself.
No outside food or drink.
Are you really gonna bust me
for my sweet tea?

A mother’s love.
Crying alone in the dark.
Misplaced faith
and how we find it again.