Not in my Neighborhood

I awoke to a barrage of text message alerts.Opening one bleary eye I flopped my arm over my head reaching for my phone and slowly drug it back toward my face.The sinking feeling in my stomach wasn’t from the drinks I had last night.I shot straight out of bed and bounded toward the window, hoping against all hope that the photos that now graced my phone were a mass conspiracy. They were not. My morning encrusted eyes were treated to the sight of my sweet, loving husband dressed in nothing but a yellowed tank top, his knickers, and a beer helmet.He was pushing an ancient mower and waving to the neighbors with a carelessness reserved only for the very young and the very old.Since he was neither, I wrapped myself in my bathrobe and threw myself out the door in attempts to save him…well me, from further gossip and photos. “Honey,” I yelled over the metal-on-metal sound of the mower, “what the fuck are you doing?” He just grinned and gestured to his ears and then the lawnmower. I raised m…

Monkey Business

The leather straps of Jason’s backpack dug deep red fissures into his shoulders as sweat stung his eyes and mosquitos buzzed around his head.The heavy humidity of the forest made him feel like he was swimming instead of walking, but without the benefit of weightlessness. His arms stung every time a plant brushed against them from the sunburn he got two days ago when he still thought this vacation was a good idea.In the middle of a rainforest, they brushed against him often. Further up the trail he watched his wife, Katie, laugh cheerfully with the insufferable couple from Australia. She caught him looking and waved her fingers at him, grinning at some inside joke with her and her new best friends.Not wanting to entertain thoughts of murder, Jason turned his attention back to the mud and bug-infested trail in front of him just in time to trip over a root and faceplant into black boot churned earth. “Oh no! Honey, are you ok,” called Katie. “Just. Fucking. Fine.” said Jason…

Phone That!

“God dammit,” I heard Jay’s voice erupt. A human tornado had tossed our clothes about the room. “What’s the matter, babe,” I asked collecting our belongings. “I can’t find my damned cell phone.” “We are on vacation,” I said holding the lingerie I bought for the occasion.

Small Potatoes

I think a lot about the fact that I am never going to know the secret of my grandma’s mashed potatoes.They shouldn’t be a mystery.I asked my mom once what grandma did to make her potatoes so delicious and she looked at me like I had grown a third eye. “They are out of a box, just follow the directions.” Grandma always had the same box of mashed potatoes: Betty Crocker Potato Buds.They sat in the cupboard next to the refrigerator on the second shelf, right beside the Stove Top brand stuffing.The box was pulled out for family dinners and was featured prominently next to the turkey, or ham, or whatever traditional holiday meal was being served.And always they were my favorite.Melt in your mouth potatoes, with the sweet taste of butter and covered in perfectly cooked gravy.Uniquely grandmas, regardless of who may have cooked them. “They are out of a box, just follow the directions.” Stove Top: 1)Combine water, salt and margarine* butter may be substituted. My grandma always had a tub of marga…

Empty Shelves

It was strange to see you lying there spine broke and insides split asunder. Your pallor spilled upon my bedsheets and I, unable to fix you, gathered you to my chest and wept for the long hours we spent curled in resplendent rapture, wrapped warmly in delirium dreams.
You were so good to me in your sweet silence holding my mind in your hands while it tried to escape its own darkness never protesting the damp spots my tears left on your surface as my sorrow mingled with your words and created whole new worlds.
You have left a hole in my home, in my heart, in my head that can never be filled without first stopping by the bookstore to fill the void you have left on my overfull shelves.

Author's Note: Sorry, not sorry :D

Considering Lost Lockets

*Trying my hand at prose poems*

Consider me, at twelve years old: all elbows and knees and good intentions, knocking about in dirt and on swing-sets with one eye on the boys who will start to call me ugly in a few years.Circled precisely around my neck on a silver chain hangs a heart whose hollow center holds love from people I’ve never met; great-grandparents long gone encapsulated in tiny oil paintings and left in the trust of a young girl.These beautiful responsibilities are still too much for me and filigree love lays lost in sandcastles beyond adolescent fingertips.

The Worst Good Dream-Sevenling

I am full. A multi-color carousel of wonder. Octopus arm blessings are more than my heart can hold.
I am empty. A midnight circus of bone grips me And I drown alone in a ball pit of lies and shadow.
I am out of medication.