Children of heaven

at dusk I take the bits of fortune cookies, crumbs still scattered across the messy kitchen table and…write to you, about the disposable styrofoam containers, syrupy orange sauce, tendency I have to eat my way through grief (of losing you) when…I admit you…do not need me, better that way, my trenchant sentenceless phrasing, my desert-wandering inertia, my messy house and muted grief all pressed into this vanilla-y cookie folded around words written by a stranger somewhere, perhaps one day there will be an algorithm for these things equal parts admonition and prophecy.  Oh, prophecy, the old clothes of mortality, cast-off, superfluous from the beginning to

the children of heaven.

Not-so-clingy Mcguffin

What if losing you

were like nothing so much as

watching a child throw

an erstwhile boomerang

into a once-drowned field?

Even with the approximate knowledge of descent, I pace,

Shift aside the long grace

..shift aside the long grass…with my feet

Look for signs of you-markings like the body of

a coiled snake

Glint of color, perhaps

but you are lost out there


And I tell them things to tell myself 

You are not a boomerang 

Even a boomerang is not always

a boomerang (when it fails to return across  the field)

Oh darling

Come back to me

in the end.


what if it was perfume

or acorns stashed in my pockets?

Bits of things remind me 

of you

Lost to me for now

I trace all the 


timelines of our

Would-be existence together

How did you 

sprint past me, Dear?

Leaving perfume, acorns

emptied from the inside out

This pocketful of 

Birnam Wood in my hands,

in my hands, this forest floor

Dirt, mulch, fallen leaves, roots, baby trees…

Saplings, timbers, interlacing 

Limbs outstretched toward the warm 

Light of God who takes away the sins of the world 

…the story we will be.