We should all aspire to have the honesty of children,

to be fearless and feckless, get our hands sticky

and sweet. Joie de vivre.


We used to pour so much faith into the hands that fed

us, that clothed us, reprimanded and shaped us. Left

a nickel under a pillow, a gift under a tree.


It’s something I think about often:

To be young and naive again,

To go to sleep unplagued by dreams

Of terror and hatred filling the world

I live in, yet don’t understand.

Hatred a product of different skin,

Or of the person one might find love in.


We should exude the blind trust and love

For each other that children do. Answer simple

Questions with simpler answers. The sky is blue

Because it just is. I’m crying because I’m sad.

I’m scared of the dark, not what lies within it.


We should all aspire to have the honesty of children.

To be fearless and feckless, curious and courageous.



am I me

with no pages to read

no paper cuts

no ink to bleed?

am I me

or maybe she?

who could tell

which me is me,

which face of many,

from the books I read?

am I she?

all bravery and fire.

am I me?

all hidden and shy.

the me who is me

depends upon

the different faces

on the pages

of the current

book I read.

Bluets by Maggie Nelson: A (brief) Review

“Suppose I were to begin by saying that I had fallen in love with a color. Suppose I were to speak this as though it were a confession; suppose I shredded my napkin as we spoke. It began slowly. An appreciation, an affinity. Then, one day, it became more serious. Then(looking into an empty teacup, its bottom stained with thin brown excrement coiled into the shape of a sea horse) it became somehow personal.”

     Bluets is a semi-autobiographical collection of 240 prose poems reflecting on love, heartbreak, depression, grief (the subject here is her friend who became paralyzed in an accident), sex (her erotic obsession with an ex- lover, the mysterious “Prince of Blue”), etc. portrayed through Nelson’s fondness of the color blue. In her book, she explores her loneliness in her own prose as well as the words of other writers, philosophers thoughts on the color theory, and researchers’ study of the color spectrum.

Her musings are thought-inducing while still retaining the beauty of language that is found in poetry. Though the numbered thoughts may seem fragmented at first glance, they are anything but disconnected. Her writing is some of the most colorful (pun sort of intended) and entrancing I’ve read. My short little review doesn’t do this stunning book nearly as much justice as it deserves, so you’ll either have to take my word for it or read it yourself (I recommend the former).

“71. I have been trying for some time now, to find dignity in my loneliness. I have been finding this hard to do….75. Mostly I have felt myself becoming a servant of sadness. I am still looking for the beauty in that.”


A Witness

I read once that perhaps we sometimes cry

In front of a mirror to feel witnessed in our despair.

So today, when you shed your first drops of liquid sorrow,

I shed some of my own. I felt your sorrow, too.

When your chest bowed inwards in pain

From the agonizing ache in your heart,

When your throat scratched itself dry

From the intensity of your cries,

When your heart broke,

From how carelessly he treated it,

I didn’t tell you it would be alright,

Grab your hand, hush you.

I acted as a mirror, witnessed you.

I wept, too.

Ode to Rose

You take me to


When we played cards on thursday evenings

While mom worked

The peachy light of the setting sun

Illuminating us through the sunroom windows

So much glass, my mind feared

Constantly of what would happen

If a tornado were to suddenly break on

Our little family tobacco farm

And shatter those wall to wall windows
Or the day she gave me that dress

She made specially for me

Out of the material that reminded me of the blush

That painted a baby’s cheeks pink

And how I hugged her so tight and

Kissed her head so sloppily

In my haste to try it on and give it a spin

As was our tradition
Or perhaps the hours we spent in the yard

Ears of fresh corn in our hands

Their translucent hairs littering our laps

Having been pulled from their heads of yellow

Under the colossal oak tree

I desperately wanted to climb

But the lowest limbs were twenty feet

Out of reach

The morning sun burning the backs of our necks and

Drenching us in it’s spring rays
And most importantly the night she

Suddenly stopped having a smell

Stopped having anything at all

When she let me out of the backseat

Pink nailed fingers ghosting my shoulder

As she reminded me to break a leg

The night I went into the crowd after the show and

Couldn’t find her there

The night I went to the hospital to see her

And was attacked by the stench of cleaning supplies

And sickness and death
Not you, rose perfume

a word, a kiss

our first kiss is a word

a word is the first to caress our tongue

to touch our lips; make us blush

it is sweet and slow and soft

nothing like the awkward blundering of lips

with that boy from high school in a

dark, dank cinema

popcorn spilling over from the sudden invasion

of space

how dare he try and steal the limelight

arrogantly assume he was the first to embrace your lips

how dare your mind try and tell you that

it was his touch that made you blush crimson

not the way the word “beautiful”

tumbled from his mouth

the syllables acidic on his taste buds

from the amount of times he’s said it before

to girls he knew needed desperately to hear it

in order to do as he pleased, then leave

sleeve tucked in hand

wiping the innocence – his prize-

from his crooked grin


make it stop

Please leave me alone

I didn’t invite you in

Yet, you made yourself at home

You settled in.

My mind isn’t some cheap motel or inn

For you to stay at and come and go

With the wind

Please keep quiet

Could you possibly raise your hand?

So I can know not to call on you

To scream my insecurities and faults

Right back into my ear

Release your hold on my lungs

It’s hard to breathe

Do you enjoy and delight in

The ache that you bring?

Stop throwing it all in my face

I’m begging.

I’m desperate.

I know. I know. I know.

I’m not good enough.

You’ve told me time and again.