Love Letter to Saturday

Maybe I’ll brush my teeth.

Maybe I’ll drink coffee in my dirty kitchen with no underwear on.

(The latter, but it is not a metaphor. It’s just been never since I’ve last washed the floors).

Next, gloat privately about my Scrabble win last night.

Feel overcome with love/gratitude for myself for playing qi and fi on a triple letter score but also, for once, I’m not nursing a hangover.

Bright tales. Bushy eye (brows).

Take a good lentil poop and have enough toilet paper

to cover my ass then pass

the cereal, consume the Internet, write a few lines of bad poetry

in my Moleskine-turned-diary.

It’s such a teenage/stupid thing to do, to keep a private, tedious account of things like “FEEBLER – 24 points, thank you very much”

And my bed is not made. And laying in it keeps it that way.

Salve (My Version)

Maybe it’s an ocean swim, summer rain, strong coffee,

to hear my mother’s voice back when she could save me.

Maybe it is love, the filament in every lightening bulb: the juice, the nectar, the buzz.

Every season a peach falls in winter only because it didn’t know it couldn’t, but to tell you the truth my lips are cracked.

I don’t know if you were right or I was wrong, and anyway maybe

it’s not what you give, it’s how you apply it

I’m sorry

Gently now, honey, where the skin is torn.