1. You are not the tangled Spider Plant your seventy-five-year-old foster mom (five worlds ago) made you water every day. So stop sending out roots. No, really. Stop. It. The soil is invariably mixed with pesticide pellets, and if it isn’t, if it’s the good dirt—I mean the really good dirt that’s black with moisture and nutrients, soft as plush, and thrumming with a warmth you just want to curl your shy tendrils into—don’t get used to it. Some firm, yellow-gloved hand is alre
(a golden shovel poem after the song “You Are My Sunshine”) Every night before bed, you read “The Kissing Hand” to me. The book with the raccoons. Did you know that raccoons’ paws are very similar to our own hands? In the morning, the moon fades and you are ready for what’s become a ritual before school: placing a heart-shaped sticker kiss in each of my palms so when I miss you, I can rest my chin in those shaking hands and pretend the sunshine is an ever-present thing. A rac
Hey, I was there! Waiting for the end of the world
which resembled the entrance of the Black Hole at Alton Towers. As the car shunts into darkness, we are pinned in place
by precarious, uncomfortable restraints. They will not stop us
but may prevent escape in the event of a crash.
The best thing about rollercoasters is the slow glide to the end
after the fear. The hiss and