I thought of the end and / I met it for what it was.
poetry
the other mother
Her snail’s pace is patience, thrumming through the rooms where I try to exist.
preservation
inches from the nowhere drain
the rockhounder
hound the ones with rounded edges
postpartum
it took a year for it / to die, shelled and / alone in a far corner of / the unkempt living room.
kensington solstice
in thick, tar-fused junes / we purpled shins on bike pedals
the rut
descend and dissolve
on why I can’t help myself
because I don't / know how to know / it any other way
sustainability
i've grown feral.
mothering
the one with the match / gets no credit for the heat.
