I’ve been thinking – about lines that form frames, sharp edges, boundaries that cannot be crossed.

I’ve been thinking about resolve, about dreaming, about presence, and the illusion of choice.

I’ve been thinking about love (how unpoetic) – beautifully defined by Elad Nehorai as “a verb…the act of giving.”

I’ve been thinking about hate as something that can also be given, shared, and even lost in the darkness of apathy and settling.

I’ve been thinking about rams, about loss, about bridges, and narrow walkways.

I’ve been thinking about change, my own desire to grow out, to trespass, to be alone.

I’ve been thinking about mirrors and choices, about possibilities and the need to believe that everything is still possible, that no choice is final, that all doors are still open.

Should I close one? Where should I hide my dreams, my infinite possibilities? How should I grow out?

Deserving questions thought up within the bellies of tea and midnight ice cream contrasted against dark skies and vague horizons, deserve poems.

Because this is the art of poetry, a space to grow out, to imagine, to live within our dancing fictions, explore their chaos, experience their reality, share in their possibility.

And so, writing poetry at 2 AM on your belly, imagining all the rounded parts of you that slide and roll, that cannot puncture or break through, and minutes become hours and hours become language, unintended metaphors, allusions, sounds.

That’s how writing begins, how a marriage begins and how it ends…perhaps. With a dream, a loss, and the image of something round and heavy tangled in sky.

To Read “Marriage and Motherhood, In Eight Stages, click here.

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