• Carla

In Our Hands

Things That Are Easier Than Healing:

Scraping TP off a bathroom ceiling.


Drinking coffee while riding a horse.


Learning the lyrics to “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

Teaching a snail to drive.


Playing ding dong ditch with a cheetah.


Winning a gunfight at the O.K. Corral.


Building a house of cards on Old Faithful.


Getting “45” to apologize.


Sleeping on a bed of rusty nails.


Mixing oil and water together.


Reading a memoir written by ants.


Brain freeze, but forever.



The Last Dandelion In November

Everything seems to be crumbling


It is


You dropped your keys in dying leaves


Don’t worry


You will drive away from this place


One day


There is life left underneath here


After all



Injustice

Another one goes free.

How many more

Until we see?


How many more.

How many more.

How many more,

Will it be?



But You Are

In the warm sanctuary of your bedroom,

I hold the brick from inside my bag,

burdened by the voice coming out of it.

You hold my hand.


In the midnight shadow of my doorstep,

a drunken brick sits stiffly outside,

heavy with threats, anger, and jealousy.

You sit with me.


In the spiteful spirit of revenge,

a sticky brick pulls my heart down,

soaked in beer “accidentally” dumped on you at the bar.

You pull me close.


I knew, you whispered. He just wasn’t worth the fight.



In Our Hands

Pinkie to pinkie,

ring to ring,

middle to middle,

first to first.


Thumb to thumb,

skin to skin,

pulse to pulse,

wrist to wrist.


Twined together,

palm to palm.

Together, together,

together, a balm.


Together. Together.

Together, a psalm.



Thank you for joining me. I am so glad you’re here!

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