“I have wondered if thee will marry,” his father said.

Elnathan looked up from his rabbit stew.

“It is a part of life,” Samuel Holm said, and he ate another bite.

They had built this house together. They had mortared the stones for the foundation, hewn the floor joists, notched the logs they stacked and chinked with rocks and straw and clay. They shared one bed. Through all of it, they had never spoken of marriage, love, or any future beyond tasks to perform. They had left their first farm five years ago, and in that time, Elnathan had heard six directives from his father for every word of conversation.

He studied the older man in the fading dusk, debating whether his father meant to test him. “The Friend says men should live in the Spirit, not in the flesh,” Elnathan said.

Samuel Holm lifted his bowl to his lips. Elnathan noticed his father’s hands trembling again, as they had since his illness the preceding year; Samuel Holm had spent less time carving or whittling since. He wiped his arm across his graying beard to erase the tell-tale drops of broth. He folded his hands on the table and watched them, as though guarding their stillness. “Thee is nineteen. If thee did not shave it, thy beard would be full by this time.”

“Men shave their beards. Thee is the only man I see to wear one.”

“Thee would think of little else beside marriage, if thee lived in any other place,” Samuel Holm continued. He lifted his eyes. “There are things important to a young man.”

Elnathan laughed. “Thee think me a young boy indeed, if thee think to explain such things.”

Samuel Holm returned his eyes to his hands. One of their cows lowed nearby.

“Thee was not so old when my mother left time,” Elnathan said, “and thee never thought to remarry.”

“That I did not discuss the matter with my son does not mean I did not of think it.”

Elnathan watched his father, awaiting further words, some sign. Samuel Holm sat quietly with hands folded on the table he had made.

--and for this soil, we are not to blame

after all, something of these remains,

in tatters, redressing every Incarnation.

And I know that I was one,

and for many of these, no-one

in particular, to remember--

And still, I have kept our faith,

clean, with skin beneath my fingernails.

We're not the same as we once were.

I've been reading through our messages-

the ones where you said I was yours forever,

where you made me feel like I was beautiful,

where you said you wanted to hold me until I fell alseep,

because you knew that nights get hard sometimes.

And I saw the ones where we'd joke-

about the future, about you and me,

maybe a family together someday,

our future house, future jobs.

We were going to have it all.

The messages are making me cry,

more than usual tonight, like we're actually over this time.

I really hope you still read them too,

the "I love You's," the "See you tomorrow's,"

even the "screw you's," when we'd laugh and joke everyday.

I miss being able to tell you things and not feel bad about it.

I miss our old vibe,

where it was you and me against the world no matter what.

I wanted forever with you, and I thought you wanted it too.

We were all in, until we weren't.

It feels like we're strangers again, to be honest,

after how close we once were, the life we had planned out.

I had my whole career planned, and you wanted it all for me,

plus you by my side through it all, no matter where life would take us.

I want that for us.

I want all that love, plus more.

i was born with my umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. blue and silent. (always). when doctors ask my mom when my anxiety began, she says it was in that moment. she swears my instinct is claustrophobia. i knew what dying felt like before i had the chance to cry. before i had a name or footprints on a page. i was born late and huge, an extra ten days and almost 9 pounds. i'm tall, much taller than my mom, almost eye-level with my dad, i'm out growing them. and yet, i'm still attached. i cried yesterday, started to panic because my mom left. i couldn't go with her to new orleans, i have to stay 'home'. i told her, 'it's funny how often you leave, considering you're the one who forced me to move down here, and now i'm the one who has to stay.' she said, 'you can leave, you don't have to stay.' but i need her. she's suffocating me here, but i need her.

I love you. (how)

I love in the way the sun loved the moon…she chases him daily into the horizon until in eclipse they finally meet. Years may go by without recognition…I will love you.

I love you. (how)

I love in the way the sky loves the earth…she waters him with the tears he causes. Unrequited; undeserved. Flowers will bloom…even when you hurt me…I will love you.

I love you. (how)

I love in the way a hen loves her chicks…she fiercely guards them; their life is precious. Tenderness gives way to ferocity if threatened.

I will guard you…I will love you.

I love you. (how)

I love in the way a dog loves her master. She licks his face after he’s left her alone all day. Innocent trust, enthusiastic affection, adamant loyalty. Even if your heart forgets me…I will love you.

I love you. (how)

I love in the way a verb adds movement to a sentence. I love you as an action and state of being. I will help you and ground you. I will make sense of your world…I will love you.

I remember a bus stop.

I can picture it- seven years later.

It was cold, so it must have been fall.

I remember your little bounce- you were cold. Already wearing a hoodie, so I couldnt offer mine.

I remember the glint of your teeth off the stop lights. Driving felt so far away then, waiting for the bus.

I remember your laugh on the wind- sharp, deep and cutting. I felt my own lips turn. I remember it was a tie between a grin and a frown-

because I could not openly love you then. And I was too sick to know how, anyway.

But nobody knew- not how I kept you sacredly to my chest. Not my quiet murmuring of worship. They didn't know the same altar I prayed at for your love that they prayed for your salvation. Or mine. Who knows?

Seven years. So many hours lost to thinking of you. So many poems. An entire book.

So, I know. I don't know you now, just as you don't me as must as you like to think you do from what I heard of you saying about me.

Despite it, I love you. Or maybe I love late, cold nights at a bus stop,

and awkward fumbling and hidden, anxious kisses.

I smile and swallow bitterly until im worried my face will stick like that.

And then I know it isn't true.

If soulmates exist, it is you. Because I cannot be rid of you though I try.

I don't remember your smell, or your touch, but I remember you.

I remember it all.

She is her.

Mostly noun, given,

And she is an English teacher and shall berate me should she find this;

but she is her. Beyond grammatical repair, or rule of prose.

I do not care, for she is why I am me.

And if she does see this- you are her.

My aunt- a woman more mother then extended family,

a woman who's heart can break and bend.

A human so giving nobody notices until her efforts are missing,

a human so sweet the earth cried the very day she got sick.

I remember it too well. I remember about her more than myself, like a broken bone.

It aches now, her pain- my bone.

Her feelings are mine- only I feel them.

I feel them miles away, and do I feel them deeply.

I react how she cannot, due to her heart.

I react when she is not sure how to.

I bow my head at her anger, and revel in her praise.

If my grandmother is the queen, my aunt is her heir beyond birthright.

She spent the last of her serotonin on my laughter.

She spent the last of her smiles on us all.

And I gasp from the severity of the loss.

She is still with us- which is why I reflect her pain.

She is sick. But she is her.

Within my scar tissue exists her- within my flesh,

within whatever is good to me is given by her.

Love is her. She is love.

We were tucked away together,

in a cozy kitchen corner,

where sunlight spilled

across our worn tiles,

listening to a song

that felt like breakfast—

milky eggs and black tea.

A clattering of utensils

pots and pans singing

as the record player

whispered on about

universal mornings,

young camaraderie

found in our shared

moments, veiled truths

of broken families and

small town dreams.

The kind of things

that forces you to

grow up too fast,

and too soon;

but, here we are,

you and I,

overcomers,

ride or dies,

thick as thieves,

thicker than water,

thicker than the

grocery store

cinnamon rolls,

You know the ones,

the ones that really

stick together.

I am not as I once was. My skin is thicker, cuts white and banded beneath ink, muscle strong, brain more settled. And yet I think of you. Someone who caused me so much strife in my youth, were the cause for much of my shifting mind and bleeding skin. The reason my muscles are bigger then yours.

I haven’t seen you in seven years and yet I think of you. I am unsure if I miss you, or perhaps being a teenager where everything was easy to digest. How do I digest this?

Seven years of hating you, seven years of having loved you. Is your impact truly so big, that I will always feel as like I am mourning something that never died? Buried a living creature that causes me more grievance then something as pure as love ought to?

Why do I still feel a pounding in the back of my skull like fists on a one way partition whenever I kiss, touch, try to love someone else? It isn’t fair.

I wonder if I ever cross your mind. I hope I don’t. I wish I do. I wonder if you feel my fists on the glass reverberating when you kiss, touch, love others.

I wonder if it’s the horrible twisted strings of fate, or if I am truly insane like you once said I was.