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Poetry

Trigger warning: domestic violence, gun violence Anniversary Hail to the guardians of sleep, for one year ago last night, they stood at the foot of my bed, or at the entrance to the baby’s room, in shifts, maybe even drugged him out cold on the couch so I might still have my head when I woke. Hail to the living room drywall, which absorbed fists meant for me the next morning, didn’t care if he tore it to shreds, and he did. Hail to my broken laptop, my broken phone, my

I spent weeks wondering who you are. The domino days have struck in toppling distance. We are skipping on our own ideas Two players: the self and the shadow, an off-board game of Hot Lava. I never know where to land when I can see us both –in you or near you? Duality of self is curious; I find me on the mosquito side of the wooden screen door. I watch myself drawing identity –that four syllable path to the soul piece–from the basket of the unclothed mind. Shadows and worries danced in the lily-bright fields of the wedge-wheel sun. ~~~ This

White sheets march off the laundry line at sunset Your mother across the alley of our yards twists shut her blinds. Her thin fingers do not shake like my mother’s as she folds me into the bathtub says to turn the water on in case of fire And whatever you hear, stay put hold your breath don’t let the pointed shadows find you. Your mother at the kitchen table platter emptied of cookies she fed us after school. We played Barbies, Slap Jack, Hide-and-Seek until you gave up wanted to

You may have noticed there were no poems or recipes in my Top 10 post on New Year’s Day. While my poems and recipes are well-received, they don’t generate the same return readership my memoir or trauma writing pieces do. That’s okay with me! Truth be told, I post recipes and poems for myself. This is my site after all. However, there have been a few favorites in both these categories, so I thought it would be fun to revisit them. In no particular order, here are the top five

On the day I dared myself to speak in fourth grade my apple was taken from the class tree I was given a corner to sit in and a letter for my mother detailing my excesses and failures. Mrs. Eaton did not recognize the fear coloring my voice my legs shaking beneath the desktop the sweat on my palm when I raised my hand or the hope she would see past the olive to something other than a stony core. Later, my mother dried my palm with her own as

You don’t have to stay here it’s not your fault let him deal with the blood there are enough walls between you and magic escape through this window board your unicorn you are better than this place I will keep your devil in this box for a time. When you return we can look at him together watch him clean the mess he made with your body we will rinse our vaginas free of his lingering ash I have heard unicorns are spiritual healers take yours to the tree tops

Half the battle is drawing the lines the other half is deciding which side to occupy which space not to share which lines to scuff even erase I used to stack my lines until I built up shaking walls surprised when they collapsed I was tumbled over a squiggly burial ground I ceased My finger, that toe, my nose- the part doesn’t matter just that they broke off one at a time until I was so much blood gritty remains I’m trying to say something some grand statement a meaningful,

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