poor babies

My poor baby Scoutie.

(And poor At too--the DSA candidate he'd campaigned for lost by just 190 votes.)

in unknowing

-------------------------

some beginnings rush to broadcast

they rise up

in the way fear always sees love

and uses it up

although none of us is too empty for life

I hear

this tree saying: I'm only just a seed 

 hold me

a breath sighing: I want to be born 

end me

---------------------------

Pic: Nu as we set off down the driveway. All my outside time with Nu these days is in the dark--whether they are walks to the school bus or (here) getting ready to put the chickens to bed.

underneath it all

I know the gossip well enough

so as I fall asleep 

I know

every body could be these bodies

so... easy and insignificant

in their yearning

always welcome under blankets 

with whatever remains 

of love 

their kindness like the glance of 

streetlights in my childhood 

bedroom

where some other child might lie awake

amazed at how they cannot 

fall asleep

tight/rope

I like how fear shapes itself
the moment before thought 
startling inching shaking
me alive

In the throb of this time
so borderless and so big
bruising every impulse 
to be here

rally

I started the day feeling less than 100%, but by the time I got to put on this electric blue wig in the evening, I was amped. 

Here I am waiting for Big A to give me a ride to the g/f's halloween party tonight. 

(I'm supposed to be a butterfly... a social butterfly. Ha.)

patch of happy

This patch of brilliant blue sky made me so happy. I was walking out of my building after four classes (five if you count the colleague's class I observed for their tenure letter).  

I had thrown my head back feeling the lift of a good work day (that was thankfully done) and had to marvel at how much the sky matched Bluey who was waiting to take me home where I knew Big A was making pizza and At was coming over for a family dinner.

As it turns out it was even better because L came over bearing a pie she'd baked for Nu who has been a very, very good "chicken daddy" indeed.

two notes in a minor key

A. This photo on FB marketplace gave me major Hemingway-babyshoes flash fiction vibes.

B. Looking over minutes from last month's faculty meeting (which I had joined online) it turns out that my only contribution had been re. the library deaccession: "Maya—This is a blow. Used to be in acquisitions for post colonialism. Loves teaching in the library stacks. Students are missing opportunity physical catalogues. Going to sell books for peanuts—not placing them in another library. Very upset."

Those last two words made me chuckle extra hard. Not sure if I claimed to be very upset or if the empathetic poet-novelist-playwright colleague who took minutes that day summarized my rant.