my mom had a lot of plants
when we were kids, at least at first.
i remember them from when we
lived in iowa. there was
an ivy plant i loved
that lived on top of the
piano, wound up winding
itself down the side and almost
to the floor. it made me think about

i've never had children
of my own; i made
artwork instead. but i
marvel at the fierceness
of the love i have for
my sisters' children.

i will probably never change the world.

this is okay with me.

i will get up every morning

and focus on my ripple

the ring of concentric circles

extending out from

i wonder
how babies feel
about being born.
it's safer in
the womb, but

we wear our heart on the
outside because somebody loved
this neighborhood so much
that she rescued this house
from the flood. she fought back
against those who wanted to
tear it all down, who said
restoration can't be done, it's
too far gone. she knew someday
that there would be love
in this house. because

i always tell people
when they ask
i'm from texas, because
who wants to be born in the
midwest? though i do grow
nostalgic, at times, for

i am so often
a n x i o u s,
feeling as though
my heart will burst,
alternating between a
desire to ran a w  a   y
or (hide) not knowing
which to do so that  i’m
paralyzed. once

i don't yet know
how to say
the things inside
that need saying.
i only know that

i love the liminal, those

moments in between who we

are and who we could

turn out to be. when you're

traveling, there's a heightened

they can be difficult
for some. we put so much
pressure to be perfect
on ourselves, to be
awesome at all times.