sereno

Let us be ocean and coast, a taking into and over one another: shifting sediment, a breaking down

of rock: dredge and deposit. A series of prepositions meaning proximity, although the most of us extends away

from one another. Once, in winter, I ventured far inland, forgot the crash of gravity pulling you over me

and away—forgot there is a place where we meet and retreat but never let go. Let this be a moment of remembering,

my love, as I stand at the edge of myself, cliff and sea grass and the screaming gull above, sighting your breadth to the horizon.

She Sure Can Ride

yesterday someone, a writer I respect, asked me if I spoke another language. my reflexive response is usually yes, the most useless one (please, no offense intended; it's me being very self-effacing), german

was that my first language?

no, haha, I lived there for a year and spoke it (fluently, for a while), and haven't used it since...

she said she could tell because I did some of her favorite things in writing, something she noticed from multilingual writers

and I thanked her, and stuttered about how maybe we all transmit and pick up signals, and it's a shared thing, just different 🤷‍♀️ and went to bed

and this morning, I thought of a little fifth-grader who, because she was weird and lonely and a little fucked-up, started teaching herself german with a used berlitz book, and when teachers found out, she got to walk to the high school over lunch and sit behind football players, who then asked for her help with their homework (which led to more classes and that year abroad...somewhat beside the point)

and realized how our tracks are laid without us realizing it

I suddenly felt love, for the *first time*, for that little fifth grader

I'm a mess

she was sweet and brave and lonely and weird and lived in fantasy worlds for company and stimulation in a small town, and wrote a story called "a nation torn" 😂🥹 as a sixth grader and never got love she deserved from herself

Big Freedia, inspo for Zelle

She says Water is life!

when she brings her pills and her water cup and gives me the look, her working look;

tells me how she - 103 - is anxious now

pounding on her walls

and she says four words at a time now.

I count them on my fingers when she babbles.

They curl in like

I'm trying to hold

my brothers, also alive and well in my heart. I miss west texas for them. and, oddly, pockets of what smell like ozone, while driving through hill country. so unmistakably sweet and fresh, I drove with windows down just hoping to catch it.