the permanence of earth

She stands and stares out the window

at the spot in the woods,

unable to comprehend the permanence of the earth

separating them,

or how here can change to gone

somewhere between breakfast and lunch without her knowing.

She churns it over in her mind like a spade turns dirt,

but she is only ten and we are middle-aged

and have grown accustomed to the short life cycle of pets.

But I loved her, she says

with the tenacity of a child

 

refusing to let go

of a lost balloon.

 

I console her, stroke her hair

and tell her the story of a dog I once loved.

 

Next time will be easier.

Death will no longer be so grossly unfamiliar,

so incomprehensible.

I know this

and mourn the loss of it.

 

 

 

 

 

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thanks for making Objects of Pleasure #1

You can still download “Objects of Pleasure” free on Amazon for a couple more days. Thanks for making it number one in its category!  Please leave a review if you like it! I need them!!  click here for the free downloadObjects_of_Pleasure_Cover_for_Kindle

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Objects of Pleasure, now free for a limited time.

Objects_of_Pleasure_Cover_for_Kindle

 

I published my story, Object of Pleasure, and it’s free for a limited time on Amazon. If you like it, could you please leave a review? Thanks!

click here

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“Vessels of Wrath” free for a limited time.

 

BookCoverPreview (1)

 

I published two books (both are short reads) and my newest one, “Vessels of Wrath” is free for a limited time on Kindle. If you read one and like it, please leave me a review and share with your friends. Thanks so much!   click here for link to Vessels of Wrath

 

Heidi

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On Forsaking the brethren

Concerned relatives warned me not to

but I grew tired 

like a tree 

falling in the forest 

when no one is around to hear it

each time left with less

 than I started with

until now there is nothing 

but the absence of sound.

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Fallen

I’ve been here before

when I was younger 

and still ricocheted off the concrete.

Now, I lie like a stone

and calculate the risks

in standing back up,

of leaving the permanence of pavement,

and joining the long line of feet

walking over me

towards that unknown horizon.

 

 

 

 

 

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On not being Dutch

 

Taped to the sides of their metal desks

lists on pink post-its written in sixth-grade-girl-bubble-hand 

names of golden-haired girls all starting with Vander

Vanderzee, Vanderbaan, Vanderbeek, Vansomeren.

The friend list I never made

having hair and eyes the color of earth

and a last name that forms deep in the  throat like mucus,

something that must be spat out in order to be heard.

When I complained, my mother told me

 how she used to hide her lunch in her lap 

so they wouldn’t see her dirty-wop-sandwiches

made with the thick dago bread

Grandma punched in with her own brown knuckles

the kind my mother can’t quite reinvent with her bread machine.

But back then, she lusted after their white, poreless slices of wonder.

 Later, I learned Vander wasn’t a blessing doled out from Nordic gods.

It simply meant from the.

The golden haired girls were not from the heavens.

They were from the hills, from the creek, from the swamp, from the earth.

From the same dust and clay as me.

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