in this broken and healing time

the pink almost fluffy flowers
of the milkweed that we canoe-maneuver closer to
to check for monarch caterpillars
flying with me i say of the red tailed hawk
who seems to appear everytime i pedal
down m towards a
just like today
as it took flight off the
electrical wires
near the big white house
along the way towards the bridge
spanning the waters of the fabius

when emory and i arrive at the pond
how we discover coals of death
(a mama duck)
whose leg is trapped in a loop/knot
of fishing wire and me
not being the most savvy poultry-chasing/catching person around
acting out of instinct to grab her
taking a few feather-spine scratches to the face
in the process
and then, the gift
of that round soft body
held firm between my hands while emory
runs to grab the pointy pointy scissors
from the whitehouse bathroom and i whisper
to her it’s ok, you’re alright and how
i can feel her wild heartbeat even out again and
then emory and i switch
(he holds while i snip)
and the way it’s hard to tell
if we got it all off because the mark
made by the tightness of the line
is so deep


how i try to ignore the call
but i am fetched from across the street and
it turns out it’s good
to laugh about the pastry case,
about the sun that will hopefully rise tomorrow
and the road that hopefully won’t fall away
to remind myself i’ve done this before and to
discover there are good reasons
why we were pulled towards each other
in the first place
that still hold true
and that don’t have to destroy us this time
emory with round cucumber slices
over his eyes as he lays back in the
pond-side spa we dug
while trish gives him soothing lashes
with green leaves and i
pour the water in and baigz
does the sand exfoliation rub
the unbelievably welty
blister rising on my knee
as a result of yesterday’s
blister-beetle stomping
(and then kneeling, uknowingly,
on blister beetle guts while harvesting
cherry tomatoes)
and surrounding redness and burn anytime i go from
bent knee to straight leg or
the other way around


because it doesn’t look like an animal i say of the chicken
trish cooked for dinner
(cooked in hunks rather than as a whole bird)
and why it is appetizing to me and so
a put a small piece on my plate
thanking the bird
biting tentatively
how the white flesh comes apart in long shreds
not unlike stringcheese
and how it is softer in the center and tougher at the edges
not unlike a fillet of fish
and how this is the first taste
(small, but still)
in 23 years

spill of gold
as seen from loft window
draped across a swath of leaves
around sunset
before being obscured by
gray layers of cloud

wintergreen delivery
just like bessie’s
from baigz compliments of
doterra and friends

on this wild and heartbreaking planet
in this broken and healing time
i write kavita asking
how her garden in north carolina grows


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