Those were the days of death

and baby monitors

and these are the days

of messy apartment

and procrastination

and wondering

if I’m straight enough.

If I take a male partner

will it feel like he’s tugging at my tits

like a child I’m trying to wean?


Subjects of frequent recollection:

All that I love will be separated from me

hence—  yet— 

deep confusion

about what makes me happy,

what impermanence means:

Birth ends in death.

Meeting ends in separation.

Accumulation ends in dispersal.

It’s just the way,

                        it’s not personal.


Yet we grieve.

Deep fragility of humanity,

we are always in the posture

of going away.

It’s trying to hold on

that causes the suffering,

not the rope slipping.










published in subTerrain