do you hate money

now this is the softcore version

how I wished / to see her sleeping

I still love books where nothing happens, / good or bad. The page is one landscape I move through.

I don’t want a husband, / I’d like a zookeeper.

I start with my father’s feet.

It’s summer & all day we did what girls do . . .

This // is how the new grief travels, blackboys / digitized and hanging—light years away. 

If you can bloom anywhere, honey, do it in a loom, / let joy be stitched in the space between god and your eyes.

Today i am thankful for morning frost / touched by sunlight and sparkling / on lawns and fields

It was a family meeting under the singing pines in 1972. / The look-alike humans were breathing hard and moving / up the hill to their meeting spot. What would soon be said / would soon be lost to my ears for twenty years but never / leave the hippocampus of my eyes.

In your country, where you are from, I don’t know what / your people say to you, when they recognize you for the // first time, looking like all the rest, with your dirty sack of / laundry and your pencil dangling like a spider on your ear.