I blame my parents

I think the last thing I wrote was a list, not the list of vocabulary words but something else.

A list of reaches, desperate

my mom came by last night, she dropped off some lemon fettuccine with shrimp

it was delicious

& perfect because I've been craving fettuccine since three sundays ago.

my stomach rode cradled in my pelvis

my brain was in my throat

my uterus had dropped & splattered in the steps of my feet.

but I turned upside down, in that bridge move

a real yoga move

and I stretched & my organs sort of congealed back to their places forawhile.

she said, do you have any idea how much I love you?

and I couldn't possibly,

and that made me cry

and does she have any idea what I think? what I've thought?

that I have the smoke of a thousand cigarettes for hair

that I have walnuts for a hand

that my fallopiantube legs were withered, so it was difficult to walk

and I tried to spring with just my feet

but they're too small

and the shells of my fingers turned to stone, they were all numb when I woke up.

she didn't make me all alone,

but I think about how everything funny is sad

and everything sad is sort of funny

and I wonder does it make that everything

devastating, tragic

is hilarious?

and then you said, no way, what's funny about your relative getting shot to death

and we both laughed so fucking hard at that

she didn't make me all alone,

but she knew what she was doing

she had to go get a reverse tubal ligation

& dad had to get something done, too

his sperm count was low

too much yellow 5, dad?

doin the dew?

they knew what they were doing. he was 29 when they met.

they knew that there would be a baby would be a human

and it would have to live

in the future

in this world

and it's a big place

but there's nothing bigger

than being shut up in your brain

which is still throat stuck

& choking

still the same year in here

A new house, same creatures surrounding. A new season; last it was creeping around and out of the winter, and here we are, creeping into it. The windowsill is adorned with the jokes of the forced natural past; we've the plasticmade dreamcatcher, beaded, feathered & chimed; an avocado, ripening in its avocadant opportunity; little puffed leaves of all the succulents, the dying jade from chicago, the spiny triplets from boise, the tall, pencil cactus from new york; half a geode; an ancient pinecone snatched from cabin; shells, corals, and other seaside accoutrement; a tin animal-covered box from the third grade.

The table, too, with its copious corns. Plentiful horns. 

But the finalizing of college, the escape, and the duties held. By the end of to-day I will have made the right impressions.

red-breasted nuthatch

Hath nut notch a breast hat. My little birds flit fast, like little bombs they dive seemly straight towards me. But not the window, and somehow stopping perfect at the little wooden house filled with black oil sunflower seeds. And their straight little nutcracking beaks hold the shells of one or two. The female is so full with eggs by now she barely can find food to feed. Her man goes around for two and brings back for her, the darling. I like a little high peeping he makes to wake me. Even before I have glasses on early I watch him around.