My new teachers ask me to leap in my writing. Ask that my words allow composting and cultivation.
I am living in my fingers lately.
They type. They drive these new streets. They cook dinners and they pour coffees and they pick wildflowers. They shake and wipe new tears
they stroke his soft dark hair.
Yet there are ponderosa butterscotch pines
this giant unicorn of a fucking bathtub
new poetry books to ingest
and a kitchen to step heavily into
lavender, sage, mint and yarrow around each street corner
what if I lose?
What if I gain?
Both terrify my throat and leave a strange anxiety
lingers like dog shit
has the similar pleasantry in handling
“Accept Loss Forever”.
I am here in New Mexico
My skin is tightening and browning
my feet are happier
My nails continue to grow strong without the interference of my anxious chipped teeth
the bath bubbles
The canyon rocks beg to be climbed by
shaky limbs and jagged breaths
tepid little boat of mine sways in this dark desert magic.