bird by bird

My mom tells me that when she sees that I have a new post, "it's like sitting down with a warm cup of coffee and piece of chocolate." She prints out my poems and essays and gives them to grandma to read at her kitchen table. They both tell me that I should submit my writing to be published, but who needs the validation of getting published when the two women I admire most in the world already read what I write? They may be my only readers, but they're the only readers I need. Love you both.

On Wednesday night I learned that the world had lost John Prine, that I had lost John Prine, and the familiar feeling of loss once again came out from the shadows. The acuteness of the grief didn't compare to when I lost my dad or my grandpa, but the achiness felt the same. We were out of time and it just didn't feel fair. I remember so vividly listening to John Prine records with my dad--and on high volume. Some of his/our favorites were "Daddy's Little Pumpkin," which I incorrectly interpreted as a sweet song about a girl and her father--and later learned that that he wasn't that kind of daddy! The song "Sam Stone" was about a Vietnam veteran who struggled with addiction, and in my head I would change his line "There's a hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes" to "there's a hole in daddy's heart where all the money goes." It wasn't a song about me, but somehow it felt like a song for me. All of Prine...

What it feels like To be a fly stuck Between a closed window And a window screen Is what it feels like To be me today.

It's my 21st day and 22nd hour of staying home and social distancing (not that I'm counting or anything). There is so much to write and record and reflect on what's happening, but I'm struggling with how to organize everything swimming in my head. So I'm not going to organize it; I'm just going to type it. Other than going to a grocery store once for tomatillos and margarita mix, I have not been in a public setting or within 6 feet of another person (other than BD) for 3 weeks. I say this with some pride because it HAS NOT BEEN EASY. I've done the Whole30 cleanse twice, and this is worse. Cheese I can live without, but my friends? I'm not so sure. At the same time that I'm giving myself a big 'ol pat on the back for staying in and watching Netflix, I'm also thrown into a perpetual cycle of feeling bad, then feeling bad for feeling bad, then feeling worse. I'm having a pity party for myself because social life is cancelled, while at th...

Refusal faces the North And says No To my heart's yearnings. Fear faces East And prevents opportunity In the unknown. Stubbornness faces South And stands tall Against other possibilities. Time faces West, And watches the sun Go down with apathy.

Your feet dangling from the kitchen counter, I show you how to carefully crack an egg. The yellow yolk plops into the flour, The whites of your eyes get big at the sight. I place your small fingers on the whisk, And I place my fingers on top of yours. I hold the bowl steadily, And together we mix. But before we crack the egg, Before your feet dangle off the kitchen counter, Before there is a you, And before I am fully me. I'll stand alone barefoot on cold bathroom tiles. I'll light a candle and play a Brandi Carlile song, While filling a syringe with a cold liquid I can't pronounce. And I'll pierce it through my skin and into my belly. For weeks I'll bruise and bloat, My heart will feel heavy yet hopeful. I'll light so many candles, And fill so many syringes. I'll do this for you and for us, So that many years later when the time is right, I can watch your eyes wide with wonder, As you learn how to crack an egg.

by Faith Shearin Love is cheaper now: fifty cent stuffed animals, deflated balloons that declare I love you but not that much. Chocolates melting in their thin plastic hearts. Holidays are arbitrary pressure, aisles of red light. I am sad the day after anything but expired love is worse than old Halloween or faded Easter. The bins of passed over kittens and hollow chocolate flowers like stubs from a movie I saw with a boy who forgot my name. The one who told jokes that weren't funny, the one who was handsome but dumb. All that old love on sale: less valuable but never free.