#57

Confession is a lost art
in our churches and our lives.
We hide behind our filters
on our screens and with our lies.
The struggle for authenticity
infects our bodies, souls and minds.
Until we have fooled our very selves
by blurry, ragged lines.

#56

*a Christmas poem*

I'm from blue tarps and duct tape
I'm from secret mountain views, for those who knew to see through the clouds
I'm from filling the bath tub, bracing for the power to go out
I'm from plotting a secret escape to unwrap presents early
I'm from waxy Advent chocolate and colored pencil ornaments
I'm from real wax candlelight at the Silverdale on the Bay hotel
I'm from late night Ramen gifting and letters in the stockings
I'm from both sides of the family and so much, so much talking

I'm from glowstick parties with fake snow falling down
Boldly, I'm from Heaven now,
Wrapped, no swaddled, in love

#55

Stuck in trauma
came the verdict.
Reliving
moments trying to steal life
or life stolen.
Unable
to breathe
to calm
to escape
or move on.
Reacting
to compensate for
the moments I couldn't react.

#54

We built a crib
And bought a car seat
Thinking they were for someone
Needing a home for a weekend.

But we also thought
That you would use them, too.

Maybe we will still get
To open our home to a
Baby needing snuggles,
But we won't get to hold you.

So many feelings
Swirl and storm
As we come to term
With you never being born.