Tag Archives: quarantine




and here you are living

despite it all 

  • rupi kaur 


a weak heart beating in spite of itself.

the sun rising in spite of itself.


suddenly there is gratefulness 

in the way you paint your mouth 

in the bathroom mirror.


suddenly music has grown 





a new necessity


loud, louder, drown everything.


the hours present like 

ocean waves in your chest


breathlessness to appreciation

of silver moon on silver water.


the irony lies in the excited chatter of 

birds outside your bedroom window,

their days fuller than yours.


your second son kicks you awake 

reminds you of the way your body moves


even when you can’t bear the thought of it.

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yesterday I wanted flowers



yesterday i wanted flowers

(such a small, insignificant thing)


weeks ago I’d have quickly ran the 

water at the kitchen sink 


forgotten to trim the stems 


crowded too many into the glass vase


poured in the drops of vodka that

promise to keep them fresh


placed them off center on the kitchen table

and went about my day.


but now 


now I’d document the hue of every petal.


I want tulips – 


sky-burnt orange 

(I’ve forgotten what it’s like to wake with the sun)


the hastiness of red

(we haven’t ran far enough for our cheeks to turn)


the authenticity of purples, blues, pinks – 


I’d lay their sweet heads 

on the countertop


carefully trim their green feet 


reach for the second vase 

(distance is key now)


carefully position each one

(watch their delicate necks)


and then I’d watch them bloom.


I’d catch each one as it

stretched out it’s bright arms

and dropped each precious petal


because time

is the smallest, 

insignificant of things.

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