haiku // february

four (someday, I hope)

will I ever sleep 
in another bed with a 
person beside me, 

and look over to 
see them breathing in the dark,
my love, softly sleeping?

will he pull the soft 
blanket around us? will he 
watch me fall asleep? 

five (of psalm 16)

lives cropping up 
all around me, jobs and moves—
like shoots of green grass. 

you are my portion, 
the soft ground beneath my feet, 
the slow-blooming bud

teach me to love it, 
to remember abundance,
this inheritance. 

six (while watching her do the dishes)

sitting on the bench 
at the dinner table while
she does the dishes

retelling stories 
of falling in love, heartbreak, 
deepest pain, deepest

longings, fractures she
glued back together with grace. 
dad comes in, kissing 

her, like not a day 
has passed since he stood in her 
doorway, asking her

won’t she take him back. 
she puts the glasses away, 
one at a time, still 

warm, full of those soft
invisible memories. 
funny how life goes

one day at a time—
tragedy and teenage love, 
all mixed together. 

seven

I’m afraid I won’t 
write because I have nothing 
new to say but then 

again, does a bird
stop signing once she’s finished 
the familiar tune? 

or the ducks, or the 
dogs behind our house that bark
every single night 

utterly wrapped up 
in the delight of their own 
bestowed-upon voice? 

eight

journal nearly full 
of my words, of my heart poured
out on the pages

and this book, too, her 
poems her own portrait of 
her wrestlings with god 

will I ever hold 
a book, printed and bound 
with my own restless heart? 

will I ever turn 
the soft pages, my own words
under my fingers? 

nine

even the dogs eat
the crumbs dropped from your table; 
even my dog knows 

I spent the hour 
crying, under a storm of 
fears, lies I can’t shake 

how much more will you
notice my groanings, take me 
into your banquet, 

welcomed not to lick 
the scraps, but to feast at the 
table of delight.  

twelve (first snow)

all these years later
nothing is better than 
waking up to snow 

like the world is bathed 
in light, hushed, in awe of the 
way the snowflakes drift 

it’s magic, how we
lean in, pause, as if we, too, 
might hear the secret

thirteen

like my tires on 
the black ice, so my mouth slips
again and again 

fourteen (of 2 Kings 2)

and then he said, “let 
a double portion of your
spirit fall on me,

that when I walk down
to the river, the waters
split in two, let me 

stand in the middle
of it, grief mingling with the 
patterns in the mist 

fifteen (the road was like a mirror, like driving on the sea)

and you say to me 
“I will interrupt you; just 
pay attention! look!

the geese on the ice!
the sky on the road! the hills 
welcoming the snow!” 

sixteen (on the eve of ash wednesday)

with trepidation, 
I tip-toe, slowly, into
the chaos, dying 

to make sense of it,
to lunge, headlong, soft and wild
into its embrace.

creativity 
rests in the chasms, deep in 
and almost awake 

eighteen (don’t miss out on life’s small joys while waiting for the big ones”)

once, an old version 
of me wrote a message in 
a locker, like a 

secret, reminder
that yes! I existed there, 
then—that once, I bloomed, 

gave away pieces 
of myself, left like bread crumbs, 
trails of words, handprints, 

a book tucked away, 
an out-of-tune piano, 
echoes lingering. 

nineteen (on the crisis in texas)

1. 
the woman in my 
line says, in her slow southern 
voice, “we aren’t prepared

for this. We know what 
to do in a hurricane, 
but this is different.” 

2. 
I dumped my water
because it was too warm 
to drink, refill, sip, 

as the rain splatters 
the window. somewhere, someone
is sleeping in this. 

somewhere, someone is
dying to drink this rain, and 
my too-warm water. 

twenty (piper)

her furry body
breathing, heavy and flopped as 
she stares at the drops

of melting snow slip
off the roof, forming puddles
on the icy walk. 

O, to rest like that! 
to lay my head down and watch 
the seasons, content 

with my place in this,
to know the rise and fall of 
my breath is enough. 

twenty-one (the first sunday of lent, watching her sing)

she is called “holy
mother church,” but even the 
smartest mothers in

her midst keep quiet.
this morning, I finish church
in my own mother’s

bathroom, borrowing
deodorant and staining 
her rug with makeup. 

have mercy on us,
the women sing. and I know—
for a fact—they are 

loved, and well. therefore, 
we keep the feast, but we don’t 
say alleluia. 

twenty-two (before I cried on the stairs)

and then he said, “that’s 
a tall order,” and smiled, 
knowingly, sadly. 

twenty-three (for abigail hughes stoner)

her fingers dance on 
the strings of her harp, and my 
heart, like magic, soars

backwards to that warm, 
musty, oblong room where she
played, prayed, what seems like 

lifetimes ago; that
recital hall, breathing with
anticipation

as she sat down, pulled
the massive, delicate thing
into an embrace

seems like magic, how 
a few tremblings of her hands 
on tightly wound strings

quicken my own heart,
aching, and healed. magic, this 
muscle memory. 

twenty-five (matthew 15)

the tax man writes she
came down from the hills—begging—
and Jesus ignored 

her, even though he 
healed her daughter in the end. 
even the dogs lick 

the scraps. I don’t get 
this one—why he doesn’t just 
listen the first time.

twenty-six (matthew 18)

I used to think I 
was quite good at forgiveness
until I had to 

give it, and more than 
once. “seventy-times-seven,” 
you say, while you take

the clean towel and 
kneel before me, wash my feet. 
“like this,” say your hands. 

twenty-seven

I lay my aching 
body under the water,
drowning out all sounds

except the steady, 
wild thumping of my heart
like a secret in 

code, like listening
to my deep longings beating 
in my mother’s womb.