the afternoon’s raping heat
comes at my body with the power of hot oil
and a med-evil priest
after the secrets of my spells
the force of life is sucked dry
and left lonely
like two sticks
making a cross
on the side of
a dusty turn

The last poem I am willing to publish from ye olde slush pile. There’s plenty more in there but the rest have been deemed unredeemable. I think I was 18 when I wrote this one. That was a brutal, miserable summer.

In New Mexico it is quite common to see little hand-made crosses on the side of the road. It’s a way of marking where someone lost a loved on to a fatal accident, frequently drunk driving is involved in those. Sometimes they are decorated with flowers, or worse, children’s toys.

I never really knew any real spells. Someday I’ll get around to the story of how God wasn’t home so I let myself in the back door.

Except that summer I was back in Colorado. Home.

In some ways that summer was a bit like this one. Liminal and unreal. Everywhere and nowhere all at once.

I’m 13 days from my first birthday. And I feel like I’m 18 again. In both the best and worst ways.

About m

My ego wants to think I'm a writer but my heart knows I'm just another one of God's Kids who sometimes has words to say. 2 human kids and 3 feline kids call me Mom. Or Mooooooom. Or mewom, depending which you ask. I'm kinda-sorta busy being a student again; this time I signed myself up for a bizarre torture known as Graduate School. Theoretically in 4ish years I'll have earned some more nice letters to put with my name. Let's face it, I'm addicted to learning and probably need rehab to restore me to sanity and remove the obsession to read books. I don't remember what free time is but I think I like to spend it sleeping or playing in the mud on a river bank.
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