that's mrs. mediocrity to you

She bent down to pick the cat up and tweaked her back again. Another reminder of age, or humanity, or carelessness. She’d never quite mastered the art of physicality, ever clumsy, always stumbling.

Bumbling through life.

Even so, her mind was always dancing, one minute tango and the next ballet, one day a waltz and at night, samba. But it all looked like shuffling to the world outside her body, and she heard the sky’s mocking whispers, even as she pretended ignorance.

Her mom had told her once she was a diamond in the rough, and she’d snorted at that one. She knew what rocks looked like, and what they felt like, too, hitting her body as she cowered in the schoolyard.

Trapped.

That’s the way she’d felt her whole life, and she laughed at the word as she stood at the counter, dishing cat food onto plates from gnarled fingers as she held herself steady on crooked hips. Her mind, flying free, knew it wasn’t true, but even so, her body went still for a moment, long enough to feel the cold seeping up through the floorboards, long enough to see her silhouette blocked out on the back wall, long enough to view the hole that bloomed in the center of her chest.

She talked to her shadow that morning. Sang to it, really. Songs about love and disappointment and remembering. She stood still as the sun shone through the window, through her body, through her music.

the grey cat melted
and stretched in light’s warm puddle
spreading claws and hours

In time.

in a wedding dress frayed

by the rust of time and

the things

you could never give up

.

i offer you

a window

an ear

this year

but i know you want

cake

and the taste of

love’s sugar

.

and your body

keeps telling

your story

betraying your hunger

with the constant motion

of silent

antagonized

lips

.

.

.

.

the way a tree holds up time for everyone to see

.

i ran on the side of the road to a place i can’t get back to

a stranger asked if i was lost

and i wondered how he knew

.

peace is always an illusion when the default is chaos

.

the red-winged blackbird wears his heart on his sleeve

and i follow his lead

.

regret is the stepping stone of forward

.

crooked is the path that gets you there

.

.

.

.

at the root of existence

we choose to grow and then

wither

bend and bow

curve and carry

reach and

reminisce

.

at night the bloom closes
protecting center from darkness
and fragile from star

.

days run together

with the laughter of sympathy

.

what we’ve learned

earned

burned

is eternally

shed

.

.

.

.

carried high above the sea of sky

(to keep from drowning, of course)

brittle fragile biting hiding

beauty

in a storm of hollow

promise

.

.

.

in a world of too much and

never enough

and tiny lives

bleeding hearts

doors that open

before they close

window views and

widow’s walks

and the quiet violence

of bloom

.

.

.

there are always hurdles

hurts and
mountains

sharp edges

jagged rock

there is always sky
to fall into

caves to cower in

roads that lead
in the opposite direction

but
only one route
is yours

to follow

.

.

.

and you are the miracle

every day

each breath

crystallized

into sky

and

molten

remembrance

.

.

.

rising high from a red bed of thorns
on a morning dressed in grey before dawn

and this is all there is

i stand to one side
worn and torn and still exuberant

breathing in the chill of tomorrow
as today twines up bare ankles

remembering to live

.

.

.

as i swim through center
muddy toes, bony fingers, brittle bones

i will not drown and the sky keeps changing

clouds of starlings dance in pulse and parody
and i smile at the futility of standing

.

float and eddy
swirl and bend
let go let go let go

.

it’s all happening

.

.

.

.