Bio Section

Sometimes when the yolk of my grief spills from its shell
I write letters to my dead parents in my journal.
I also write strange and desperate poems for lovers,
and prayers to the universe,
to-do lists, and death wishes
which are all kind of the same thing.

My socks never match, and I hate folding laundry
so I typically don’t, and the clothes strewn about
only bother me enough to think about buying a closet.
I almost never have company but I wonder
what it would be like to show someone a room,
devoid of clutter and decorated like
home meant something to me.

When I was eight, I buried a dead baby bird
I had found in the yard.
I gave them a tiny quartz headstone, and left dandelions
over the grave because it just felt
like someone should.
I thought I’d get in trouble if I told anyone, so
I was silent when my father ran over the grave
with the lawnmower.
I could never find the exact spot after that.

I have dreams where I am at my childhood home,
and it’s grey outside but the ground next to
my favorite lilac tree is still dry enough
for me to sit beside it.
I am waiting for something unnamed to return
but I do not know for certain if it is,
or why it is returning.
Here, in between, I am never lonely.
I don’t even know what that means.