Parallel Trains

Time passed unstill

Whittled between my sighs

I thought I heard a passing man once say

He would have to leave it all behind


What were we doing here

Time uncrossed

Running in parallel directions into a different space

Another universe when I had a chance to know you again

Love you

Jump back into that line and

grab that hair I left on your jacket

So you wouldn’t remember me once you got home.

And say goodbye one last time



Damaged Skin

Damaged skin


Like the color of your voice the first time it danced my name.

Strung on time and tales

Lost in a far off place.

Damaged skin

Not far from my mother’s

lonely coat.

Torn apart and put together again.

Patches in her sleeve taught me

there was nothing left to cope.

Damaged skin

A rage of vibrations cast a thunderous applause

For the damaged skin you left me in

When you left me in the dark.


Mother, How did I move in your body when your womb was my water? With synchronized spins and magnanimous kicks? Was it with small hiccups and countless whips? Perhaps pushes from my paws that stretched beyond the glow of globes. What a strange way to see me before meeting me. But how wonderful it must feel to hold your child before touching them. A heartbeat between iridescent walls becomes a prism that passes through our placenta — and I see you. Not with eyes, but through waves and I answered back with one sleepy foot. Cell formations build feelings as well as function and I hope you heard me; asking for forgiveness. Perhaps nine months was too gentle. I should have held tighter to the umbilical cord that held us together. I should have reached for the toughest rib not yet destroyed by the sins of my father. I should have breathed my last breathe when I knew it would be my first. Then… then I wouldn’t have to deal with this pain… stretching into this empty skin.

Eggs for Sale

Time and time again he whispered into my ear and tugged on the loops of my jeans.

“I want to give you a baby.”

The driving force of growing into your thirties has its perks, but the craving of a child is unstoppable and at most times inconvenient.

I’m not sure what led to our passion that night, but it was sexy; the kind you read about in books and tighten your legs to during movies.

Hands: everywhere.

Bodies covered in salted steam, hips swinging from the pendulum of momentum.

The release of him into me was enough to remind me what I was after. I absorbed his sperm with my subconscious like a mushroom blooming in the dark.


I held him there, refusing to let him slip away.

All that was wrong would be wrong again.

You see, we were no longer dating. We hadn’t been for months. But as you age, you see yourself very differently alone. There’s a sudden need for routine; a craving for the familiar. One thing was for certain: I wasn’t curious anymore. I’d been with many men, hardly one more surprising than the next. And it wasn’t the need for sex. Sex was more laborious than ever and I was aging. Twisting the skin on your neck and near your underarms is enough to make someone reevaluate habits and reaffirm self-doubt. One thing is for certain, if you are aging, so are your eggs.

Many times over the past few months I had decided I might be alone and old forever. Selfishly, no one to give me the gift I desired most; to create a life.

All I once I sat up in the bed and coughed to release his life from entering mine.

Is this what I have come to? Hormones become a Human?

My not-yet-thirty year-old body is not yet ready to be responsible for the passion of a one-night stand with an exhausted lover!


…But maybe tomorrow.


I stare among the women in crossed-legged seated postures and wonder if I’ll ever get there. Smiles strung along their faces. They’ve made it. They have found some place to call home. They pull love and compassion from places I’ve never heard of; from some chakra of the month. I still pull my tears back. The only colorful line up are my excel spreadsheets during fundraising campaigns and no one seems to care how long I haven’t been smiling. Breathe. Count to three. Allow the inner critic to wash away. I need more inner goddess, that’s for sure. Do you get that from kombucha? Taking pictures in a yoga pose? Can you see me now? Calling for help. Breathe. Maybe I’m just jealous of all the love they seem to receive. An internal healing from tailbone to sun salutations. I wish there was a bandaid big enough to cover the wounds I have. The sands of time have only stung like salt ripe on my flesh. “Moving forward” was silly advice. I now exhale my problems onto the next person. Deep, cursed excerpts of my ode to humanity and love and family and relationships and him and… breathe. I guess maybe I am jealous of those smiles stretched across their faces. And maybe… just maybe, I’ll find my own love in my crossed-legged meditation too.

Orders for The Fourth Wave Brigade

Fertilize the Feminist for the Fourth wave.

She is needed for the brigade. 

Arm her with mirror

And tell her to call it Goddess.

Arm her with an audience 

And tell her to call them Sisters.

Arm her with a voice

And tell her to call it Ancestor.

The Fourth Wave rises in Her name.

Arms unfolded, fists up in rage.

Steady as you watch her days.

Mother moon plays tricks on the tide,

Tempting one to hide.

She is needed for the brigade.

Unfinished feminism forms in the wake.

She drifts closer a little each time,

But you must show her the prize;

The Fifth is on the rise!