Cold Science

After removing flowers

and songs and sweet breads,

I was left with my own warped reading

of the laws of attraction.

Afternoons were cold

but not empty

as I dove into an angled prism

full of many shades of silvery-grey.


On the whim (of wind)

The puddle is disturbed, rippling

and I don’t want to wait to see what’s left

when the reflection stops shimmering

Somewhere in a place I can’t see

overhead, a dark bird squawks

– maybe a warning, or a mocking cry

There’s something threatening to spill out

so I close my mouth and rub my eyes

in vain, hoping worry will fade like wind

We’ve been here before

yet the volume remains unexpected

and the view indiscernible

I am woman (the days are long)

Thursday, I delight in my white hair

as it brushes my young skin and I hold

my own hands happily waiting in line.

Monday, I can barely look at the hag

in the mirror with her old hair and large body,

all heavy with regret and sadness.

Friday, I’m in love so every song

and painting and poem seems meant

for me and my beloved.

Wednesday is an existential bore, a

son-of-a-bitch who likes to hand me a whip

and instruct me on proper self-flagellation.

Sunday is for grief for the lives I’ve seen

and for those paths I didn’t choose

because there was no one to believe in me.

Tuesday, my hips ache and my elbows

are dry and I don’t understand the trend

of caterpillar eyelashes or dull nails.

Saturday, I am free without a bra in morning

and stretch my mind with books and relish

those who’ve touched me and touch me still.

Dead of winter

I fold myself into Nordic socks

because the patterns speak to me

and I’m cold in an empty house.

Nobody bothered to tell me

I’d wake up with no face

or that the sky would fail to rouse me

because sadness weighs more than clouds.

I cook the meat and stir the stale air.

Tomorrow may be different

but only as far as the sun’s reach

because I’m in a constant spin.

I wonder if the flowers will return.

evil winds

nothing in my pockets,

just empty hands and tired dreams


hindered by ice and faulty bones

with just fragments of song

and nobody to dance with


doors are closing

at an alarming rate,

my god is cold and alone now


when I squint, the fields are an ocean

and we’re all unborn