mottled by scars my leg has suffered as a doctors’ pin cushion, poked and probed for medical curiosity. now my skin stings from the needles’ bite, piercing my flesh with a trail of color, enveloping the trauma in new growth, rewriting my history in a hopeful vein. 9.2.17

the troubled soul that bubbles over from loss and fear of more loss to come so claws are extended and hackles rise, ready for battle when in fact she longs for surrender. 9.1.17

precocious and coy, she hides behind the guise of innocence while flirting with danger as a ploy for attention that she now has required. 8.31.17

the flux of change redirecting one’s plans like the river diverting its flow without pausing to reconsider its shift. 8.30.17

i enter a former home my children in tow, now with different tenants; a place of comfort and disturbance, bright colors, polished steel, flickering florescence, disinfectant lingering in the air, and the chatter softly everywhere, occasionally broken by a cry. memories return of cold thermometers, freezing bed pans, blood pressure pumps, mysterious pills in plastic …