poetryA collection of 44 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.

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.

Sometimes
I watch her watching me,
wonder-struck, wavering,
and let myself imagine
the country conjured behind those eyes—
softened by sunrise, soaked golden with grace,
assembled from galaxies
she gently gathers
in the gravity of her gaze.

In that vision,
I am radiant,
woven from whispered reveries,
rippling slowly toward shorelines
I've yet to know—
fiercely luminous,
silver pools of moonlight spilled
onto sleeping skin;
amber sun slipping slow
through morning windows,
warming the edges of fragile dreams.

She calls me brilliant,
the word not flattery
but inevitability—
like dawn drawn softly
from night's embrace,
starlight retracing
constellations we forgot
we carried under ribs, behind eyes,
beneath tongues shy with blessings.

In the hush of her mouth
brilliant is balm, blessing—
a breath I breathe deeply, syllable-soft,
sound sculpted into sacredness,
spoken into valleys
I had once mistakened for shame.
Her voice silk, steady certainty,
morning rain melody rinsing
the hidden salts behind lashes.

I hunger—
oh, how I hunger—
to step fully, finally,
into skin she stitches gently
with each lingering look:
my shape mended whole
beneath patient eyes,
wounds quietly rewoven
with silken strength
threaded through unwavering faith.

To her eyes,
I am already everything
I yearn toward—
joy softening borders,
tenderness blooming bravely,
grief lovingly loosened
by fingers steady,
graceful, careful, sure.

She imagines me
crafting poems with healing hands,
meaning made from broken pieces,
lines of light spun gently through fractured porcelain,
easing ruin into veins of gold—
wonder shining where scars once lived.

And because she sees,
I grow braver, brighter—
cradling uncertain courage,
speaking quietly in rooms
that once stole breath and voice.
Sentences reshaped gently
by the soft arc of her smile—
words warm against ribs
as ripples of perpetual yes:
Yes, you can; Yes, you are; Yes, you will.

In her nearness
I cradle hope
like something holy,
uncertainties smoothed
with palms kinder than prayer,
insecurities carefully coaxed
back toward beauty—
each doubt retold
line by forgiving line,
a gentler scripture
inked softly
with honey-slow syllables
that only her mouth
can make truth.

And when I falter, fade
towards shadow,
she cups my face,
her touch a tender question
already answered—
palms tracing maps
of vulnerability,
fear feathered carefully
into forgiveness,
fingertips patient, knowing
the careful weight of what they hold.

In that silent, sacred space,
I am remade,
again, ever again—
reflection softened
into landscapes of seeing;
grace layered over grace,
each heartbeat offered freely
to that hymn
of seeing and being seen

Until I no longer distinguish
the woman I dreamed
in her vision
from the woman breathing softly now,
palms pressed gently
to the quiet rise of her chest,
claiming brilliance
with every heartbeat, steady and sure.

The miracle of her gaze
has taught me
exactly how.