Every week, I pick a prompt from my monthly workbook (created for BOD, but freely offered in The Wilderhood), and I write on it. I call this ‘Journal Your Heart Out’.

This week’s prompt, should you choose to engage it is:

“What am I aware of wanting right now?”

The short answer is “42”. The long answer is from my archives, because this is a subject I’ve written on a million times before.


Wanting is like
pumice stone
on tender tooth and tongue.

It grates and and grasps,
reaches for the right words
and so often fails to find them

but this is how poems are born.

I will always choose wanting
over perfect peace.



Life rushes us like water,
too fast to catch
but I’m willing to be in it –
the cup of wonder, the tear, the flood
the thunder –

I’m willing to let it rush me,
to want without ceasing.

I’m willing to want you,

to be a plain, ample
point of yes, please
and with open hands,
to take what’s given.

Cast your shadow
and I will show you
something worth wanting.
Human. Gorgeously flawed.


This love asks nothing.
It does me good, and look!
There’s poetry in it.


The only poem I know how to write anymore is ridiculous.


Let me love you.
Love me back.

That’s it.
That’s all I’ve got.


I used to be a moon,
with all the waxing
and the waning
and the couplets
and the wine.

And, okay,
I wasn’t a planet,
or even stellar,
or anything
close to resembling
a star,

but I was a moon, and we
all know that the moon
is a thing.

I was a thing.


Gibbous, balsamic, turned
this way and that.
mere reflection,
ok, maybe, but still.



I’m kind of shiny right now.
from the inside out.


I blame you.


Some Kind Of Witch

After he leaves,
I wander the rooms,
running my eyes
wherever he’s been.

I turn on the music,
wipe down the counters,
clear the table,
sway, smile,

drain the dregs of sweet coffee
from his morning mug
into my open mouth,
lick the rim of last night’s glass,
pierce the palm of my hand
with the tip of his knife,

like some kind of witch.

After he leaves,
I find his eyelash
on the pillow,
and perch it,
upon my fingertip.

I close my eyes.
I wish him back,
and I wait,

and he always returns.


The Wind Is Wearing Your Voice

You’re not here,
so the tip of the finger
on my right hand
as it grazes my lips
will have to serve.

And it does.

You’re not here
so the way I skim
my right shoulder with the palm
of my hand must serve
as your breath.

And it does.

You’re not here,
so I turn my back
to your absence,
tuck knees up
against the reasons,
curl away from miles and time,

but when I lean back
against this lack of you,
I swear I can feel you,
body fitted to mine,
like it was carved
to fit the curved space
that I make with
my desire.

You’re not here,
but the windows are open
and the wind in the trees
is wearing your voice.

It’s saying
‘yes, love’, and ‘yours, love’
and ‘now, love’, and


Oh yes, this girl sure does know how to want.




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