poetryA collection of 39 posts

We ran for the running,
chased nothing,
won joy.

Grass-stained knees
Popsicle tongues
Palms full of gravel
and glory.

I was
a mom-shaped kid—
barefoot, loud,
rebecome.

And you—
you laughed
like you’d never stop.

You are not a burden.

You are tired—
not broken.

You are in need—
not too much.

You are still here—
That is triumph.

I was a mother.
I was a wife.
I was—

—I was

The door clicks shut—
and I’m breathless air,
a question unasked, unformed.

The street rings under
unmoored heels; cobbles
like clenched teeth, grinding

the soft from me.
A map worn thin from refolding—
creased, unread, without origin.

I cradle my hollow
like it’s leaking—
not fragile, just uncontained.

The names I answered to
—drip⸺drip⸻drip
from fingertips like rainwater.

Past tense clings
to the back of my teeth—
future tense, stuck still.

I don’t yet know
what border will embrace me,
what soil will bear my weight.

For now, I’m motion,
not lost, not found looked for—

    just…

      …mercilessly…

                  …free…

In that fractured hour,
time cracked like a bone,
breath split sharp
between throat and bone—
each swell a surge,
dragging me under,
muscles clenched like fists,
knuckles white, tight,
my skin slick with salt
and sweat and surrender.

I lost language,
my tongue broken open,
words shattered
into murmurs, moans,
a feral rhythm, raw
as rush and crush and push,
rocking
through waves
that stole sense
and gave only
ache, relief,
then ache again.

Clock-hands spun,
time and I alike dilated—
fast, slow, relentless,
surrendered—
minutes molten,
dripping thick
as honey from
the hive, viscous,
biting down on pain
and promise, tangled
in my teeth—metallic
and sweet.

In the hush between
each hard crescendo,
I gasped half-prayers,
bargained with the dark—
please, not much longer—
then dove again,
headlong, helpless,
bones spreading wide,
unlocked and open,
breaking bare and beautiful
apart.

Hands held fast,
voices a soft net,
woven tight enough
to catch my trembling fall—
but only just.
I hovered at the brink,
raw, rooted
in the fierce now—
where fear and hope
split into two,
like we were parsed
into you and me.

Then sudden,
swift release—
your voice cracked
the quiet, bright
and wild as dawn
splintering darkness,
my breath rushing out
to meet yours
in a ragged cry
of relief, of joy,
of knowing
we were both born new—
me into a mother,
you into the world.

Author’s note: Learning Czech is like…

We started with coffee and a casual clause.
Then you slipped into instrumental—
and I never recovered.

You’re the kind of language
that undresses slowly—
case by case,
stripping structure till I’m bare,
unsure what I’m allowed to carry.

You’re always just outside my lines.
I beg in the present tense—
but you only finish
in future perfect.

I used to flirt in French—
no strings, no syntax.
But you expect agreement
in every position.
And when I get it wrong,
you correct me—
say I’m only animate
when the case demands it.

You said you wanted space—
but still required the right tone.
I tried to meet you halfway,
you scrambled the word order
and said it was poetry.

You said you don’t mind taking the lead—
but you still insist on second position.
And G-d forbid I come before the clitic.

You’re soft consonants with hard limits,
and half your meaning’s always implied.
Every time I think I’ve cracked your code,
you shift the stress mid-word—
make me unvoice myself to match you.

I fell for your false friends,
got intimate with idioms
that meant nothing you said they did.
You whispered sweet nothings
with a softened ď—
then proofread my sigh.

I dream in declension tables,
whisper moans in conditional,
Wake up misaligned
and try not to cry.

But I’m in too deep.
I’ve stopped resisting your structure,
declined every soft boundary you gave me—
and still,
I keep hoping
you’ll inflect me right.

Lick the slip of it—peach-slick, spun.
Let plump pulse press on soft lip.
Murmur the vowel: round, ripe, low.
Teeth tease juice from golden syllable skin.
This line swells thick with sugar-sound.
Melt it slow in your mouth’s heat.
Gloss drips down through glottal grit.
Sweetness spills in secret sibilants.
You buzz, half-full of honey.
Swallow. Your tongue wants more.