pi & anne

unidentified petals
sticking to
so what

on the bus to the medical
a blend of vanilla & sweat
I keep my breaths
like my expectations:
low

I mean, how can reading a graphic novel make me so happy?! I don’t know. The lines are wonky and simple, it’s just black and white, and I don’t spend hours with it,  because it’s a quicker read, one that involves noticing faces, gestures, expressions, alluded movements.

between
the boxes
a single cloud

Something is happening inside me while something is happening outside of me and it combines an aesthetically pleasing whole, like snow on a mountain in the distance, a bit rough and unclear, farther away than it supposed to be, closer than measured. Heartwrenching.

I place my hand
on the outlines of their faces
on rough paper
the story of a stranger teaches me
about myself

sweet tea
i gift myself
a pet name

After all these years of reading, I turn the last page on believing there is only one story of my life to be told. There isn’t only one me to be found. There isn’t only one beginning and one ending, truly, there’s a braided verse between my fingers. I want to hold it and not let it go, ever, this feeling of spring. I need it to stay.

fresh magnolia buds
all hospital corridors are
identical

how to lie still
for twenty minutes
thunderstorms

either it humbles
or it disturbs the mind
rain coming in waves
in the days of hanami

the rust
on my poems
timelines
crack and overflow
with grief and blossoms

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I combine haiku and tanka with prose without thinking, because I don’t want to change the flow of my writing. Does the water ask where to, and how?