In honour of a 3rd birthday:












I started this blog as a desperate attempt to reclaim something of myself…something I thought left me when my son was born. When I look back, though, I realize it was already halfway gone long before one cell split into two, and 4 and a billion. I had already split into a billion pieces myself. I was already preparing to be a mother.

The day my son came crashing through me, it was like a paradigm shift. I felt power from a source I had never truly felt before. Primal, VERY female, overwhelming. My body, an incubator. My breasts, dinner plates. My skin, comfort. My hair, ropes to be climbed into this grown up world. My ears, forever listening to his every need. My mouth, whispering…teaching…kissing.

The thing I thought I lost was poetry, but what I have realized is…I didn’t. I gave birth to him, and he flits around me every day…wild and rambunctious one moment, and heartburstingly sweet the next. He learns and grows with and without me because he is his own entity. He is becoming, and I am here to help him do so.

“Mommy…you can touch the fingernail moon if you want to, but you’d better not touch the full moon because it might pop and then there will be a BIG rainstorm!!”

While scientifically inaccurate, the above statement tells me that everything will be ok. That the poetry was supposed to begin with me, and end with him.

And I am very ok with that.



I am several slips of
crumpled paper,
a decidedly
broken muse-

you’re the simple something,
subtle nothing
dancing peripheral,
everything to lose

we are electrons
repelled, yet bound eternal-
the jagged halves of
a snapped rib

the building blocks
of careful chaos, the
beginning of
the end


before this, you were elsewhere…
in parentheses, in another constellation
drifting along

incandescent star strands
stretched through infinity like
fingers. then you reached to

clasp the moon. you cradled it
in cupped palms, smoothed
craters, eroded lines. rendered

it’s heart unfettered
by the insolent swagger of time.
you were not born;

your sprang whole and perfect from
the blue. a soundless meteor,
a spark, a sparkle.

today, you’ve come again…flew
even as you fell. another
lifetime has passed, and

I am galvanized by your unreal
reality…my sky-eyed nomad,
my most desired constellation.

the shadow side

hesitation on the horizon

sun takes one last look
then dips his flushed face,
blushing at moon’s

and oh,
that first dusky moment;
ever so still

then a splash
of wanton purple
streaks the east
sky dancing

crickets and frogs sing
its arrival

prowling cats become
luminous-eyed tigers,
pouncing at creeping
shadows and

I become a night sound,
in my sheets.

Tagged ,