grinding

my teeth hurt 

i’ve been grinding them 

in my sleep

every time i speak
too passionately
it hurts

someone 

stop me before 

i say too much

they say 

enamel is stronger 

than bone

bone is stronger 

than steel, ounce for ounce 

all that pounding

just to make 

some thing flat 

a sword, perhaps

some tool for wounding,
or removing teeth 

all those edges

disarticulated mumbling
while i dream of wielding words
like swords

iron may sharpen iron
but all that grinding
makes my teeth hurt

Neighbours

I wanted to tell you
a story that would give you hope.

Instead, I sit in silence,
turn the pages of a book
I’m not reading.

I realize I’m grinding my teeth
so I take a deep breath

and head to the kitchen,
pour myself a drink,
and look out the window
into my neighbour’s window
where they stand.

We raise our glasses
to each other.

They turn away.
I close the curtains.

Perhaps one day we’ll speak

of the time

we wordlessly raised our glasses

across the empty walkway

in the early evening

and smile.

I return to my book.

Start the chapter again.

mornings

the sun is out
but the wind is cold

i go to work
every day
and struggle
with the guilt

i’m not convinced

anything will really change

i’m not sure how
to get rid of all this extra
weight i’m carrying

that’s not a metaphor

i find myself crying

for no apparent reason

other than i’m crying

for all the reasons

i’m willing to do the work

if you’d only ask

there are so many
conversations
and no one is listening
can someone please listen?

we have work to do

so much work

the nights are restless

the light outside my window

angles between the cracks

there are so many things 

floating in the air

small things (bright tuesday 2021)

my life is filled

with so many small things

small joys

                  small fears

small confidences

                             small promises

let there be small open windows

just a little light

to wend my way

                            with you

into a drunken

                        passion

this bright week

continues

empties into

                     one day

let me discover

something new

i will be satisfied

there will always be
small dreams
                       prophecies
visions

: blood, and fire, and smoke
: the sun turned to darkness
: the moon to blood

let them be writ large 

my sight grows dim

monday of the angel

i.

early in the morning

we go looking for tombs

                                        as one does

or perhaps what i really mean is

i am looking for fresh words

for the mouth is a grave

and full of stones

ii.

in the afternoon

we take a walk
                         as one does

or rather, i take a walk

we no longer walk together

it saves us arguments

                                    perhaps
but the stories become smaller

and the signs obscure

i miss our meals

together

iii.

in the night

i am filled with waiting

i light the candles

i should like to see an angel

one day

              or should i say, again?

it’s been so long

since i’ve received

a message from you