It says adapted from a poem by Nancy R. Smith. A poster at Pacific Middle school, Des Moines, Wa. The kids are gonna be alright. Hopefully.


stubborn but sweet,
never really apologetic.
She’s gotta devil’s grin
because she knows
she’s gonna win.
Fun and independent,
she’s a bit of a whirlwind.

a spark of joy,
the type of boy
people just want to be around.
At times a victim
of his passion,
just like his dad.
(but don’t tell him that)

i know as time goes by
it’s my job to let you go
(kind of afraid i won’t get to)
never really thought i would
be surrounded by this much love
and misery, which are one
and the same aren’t they?
the weight of expectation
is a burden i’ll try not to
put on you, though i know i’ll
fail, have failed already.
I love you guys.


In the moment
I had the right words,
in the right order
in order to convey
what it was I was trying to say.

But the sun glare on
windshield caught my eye
and the concept faded away.

We were driving through the heart of the prairie,

blackbirds sat on barbed fence

we passed by rows of barren corn fields,
you were on the phone with your mom.

Distant barns and silos framed houses
hidden under dogwood and chestnut trees.

Occasionally stagnant bogs gleam in a flicker
behind bobtails and tall grasses.

You said something about a hard recovery
and immediately I knew you were talking about

the caesarean with our first. I thought about the late nights
and early mornings;
trying as best I could to help

though knowing I was too immature and it wasn’t enough.
And I thought of how selfish I’d always been

my whole life, even now.
The sun refracted through the cloud filled sky

and Dahlia, our second, was falling asleep in the backseat.


Tonight we sat down, just the three of us, to read a book; the wants and needs, the friction of life fades away; because all we have we want, and it really doesn’t matter which book we read -if it’s the one with the fallen leaves, or the famous steed – because the warmth of contentment fills our hearts, until it ends and we want another, again, and we have to say goodnight, or no, still we can’t let go.


“My loves, it’s not the book that makes it special, it’s just the willingness to shut the fuck up and listen.”

Back to Sleep

When we wake up

early in the morning,

I pull you close and whisper-

go back to sleep.

It’s the same one-line poem,

one written every day

but the love that fills my heart

can only be described

in our unique way.