In Memory Of

I'm sick of the sounds of the everyday after handshakes and side hugs of all the places to lay your head, the bathtub was my home away from home. To harmonize these muscles and sweat it all out is rotten work yet I listen to the sound of water. Feet curled up in blisters like old promises, my stomach hides and that odd auburn tarnish of my fingertips traveling the notch between your shoulder and the run of the chin. I never wanted for more than a place where exhaustion makes sense. 

When the stoves on and the kettle sings but no one's home. To reduce a bone broth from scratch that is so sure of itself. Taking our turns at toothpicks to scrape at a sore, confess every wrong, and learn how not to slam a door. To day-old omelets, glorious morning breath, shedding hair, sharing headaches. To muzzled hounds and wound-up feathered pillows. To mismatched socks and upstairs neighbors. Breaking bread and early to bed. To the corner of broken mugs and sharing toothbrushes found me lacking. To returning to slamming doors, dusting cracked angels. Of all these small miracles given time what rubs and leans into and wraps around to tear down a home. From a long line of impatience in memory of you teach me how to be satisfied. To reach a place where language fails. To welcome a fever like a hug from a stranger or a cup of tea past the morning but before light, where biting your own tongue is easier. Anything to stave off the cold. To forget all the things that feel like steam rising in my throat and find ease in the burden, to just sweat it all out.

wadded-up fortune cookie wrappers and would you like to see my room? When was the last time you washed your sheets? Who does this belong to? To fake orchids and souvenir chopsticks and craving something handmade to  to sweaty candles and damp pillows and upstairs neighbors to broken glasses and mismatched socks. To the pressed pants knotted in the sink, to hair dye and faux leather I'm wearing you today. 

To the sound of lucky razors with every confidence and sweaty candles whittled down to a dull glow. Taking our turn at the giving of what grows green. How do you wish away burnt garlic and seduce the juice out of melon rinds, breaking bread and early to bed. To the corner of broken mugs and sharing toothbrushes found me lacking. To returning to slamming doors, dusting cracked angels, and growing tomatoes, celery, and basil cut down to the root of it all. To learning not to speak over your meal and learning not to chew on memory in starvation because one day you're gonna need it. To muzzled hounds and wound-up feathered pillows. 

Of all these small miracles given time what rubs and leans into and wraps around to tear down a home. From a long line of impatience in memory of you teach me how to be satisfied. To reach a place where language fails. To welcome a fever like a hug from a stranger or a cup of tea past the morning but before light, where biting your own tongue is easier. Anything to stave off the cold. To forget all the things that feel like steam rising in my throat and find ease in the burden, to just sweat it all out.





Inviting a cicada to a dinner party the framed photo of myself sprawled out on the stage of my elementary school for picture day that I cherish for no reason at all. This cicada that gets about two weeks of life to fuck lay eggs and die. It just lives, and routine becomes a beautiful religion.