underwater sick man

All the strings are breaking lately

all the handles letting go

the things I thought once tied us

were barely just for show

You say you want to go back to rehab

but you'd have to use again

I thought I'd heard all the excuses

but you've got some imagination

I always let you choose the music

hoping small things keep you calm

a honking car sets you off for hours

just more brush on your bonfire

until it's burning to the treetops

you're a pile on the couch

with the dogs and the blankets and the hat over your eyes

like they can save you from yourself

 now you're way deep underwater

your voice bubbles up slowly

you don't want to hear from me

tell me not to take it personally

well fuck you don't say i love you

don't say i matter to you anymore

don't pretend we have a future

because you're so unwell, so unwell, so unwell

Dream of Steve, on the day of his memorial service, which I couldn't attend

 

I spent last night 

looking for you everywhere

they said you’d be at the house

but I couldn’t find the right room

and when I did, they thought you were around

that you’d be back soon

that maybe you were there

 

and we waited, and I looked

people all willing to help

even if they needed help

 

and I looked for you all last night

I never found you

you were gone

you were gone

you’re gone

5/5/25

together and better

i cannot shake free

much as i pretend we walk smoothly now

unattached

reaching but not clutching

breathing a little more deeply

appreciating morning coffee alone

but yet

i don't cry when you leave

but i miss you

11/12/25

riverbed

Once again

I feel a sudden wobble

and the space between us

fills with eggshells

before I can blink

And it happens again and again 

I thought you were the strong one now

could lean on you

and we're just washing

further downstream

every fucking time this happens

12-9-25

The Soy Smuggler

The first time I had tempeh
a one-eyed guy named Seth cooked it up 
in a gas station parking lot
crouched over a camp stove in the dark, 
sesame oil in the skillet–

I leaned on his car and watched

as he splashed it with tamari,

sensed my hungry gaze,

tucked it into whole-grain bread

and handed it to me, 

adding more slabs to the pan for himself. 

I was unashamed by my neediness and appetite, 

and the hot food was delicious. 

A few hours earlier, we’d passed near a tornado

or it had passed near us–

listening to cassettes, we’d missed storm warnings

on the dashboard radio

but we didn’t know to take shelter

or see anywhere to do that

so we drove on under the eerie green sky,

two East Coast kids crossing the prairie.

We’d met the previous week 

on a rideshare bulletin board in Boulder,

him with a car, me needing a ride–

me with a duffle,

him with a cooler in the trunk

crammed with White Wave tofu and tempeh

because, he said, it was the best

and you couldn’t get it east of Boulder.

I knew nothing of that.

We made it home for the holidays–

Thanksgiving, probably–

taking turns driving through the night

and never again crossed paths on campus

because back then, a rideshare bulletin board was just that–

a place to meet a stranger to drive cross-country together,

sharing stories until we pulled into my parents' driveway--

I handed him some cash for gas,

gave cash for gas, unloaded and waved goodbye–

And if he told me how he lost his eye, I don’t remember

but I'l never forget that sandwich.

10/26/25

Another dream of Steve

 Steve, last night I dreamt we were at a work conference. You stood near me, and at some point put your arm around me, and it was nice. You made me feel secure. It was friendly, not more, but I felt so secure next to you, so sure. 

We didn't mind anyone seeing us together. 

You were younger, like when I met you, the first years--not how you looked after your bad year, your rough times. You were healthy. 

We were sorting out where to spend the night and it was clear we'd spend it together, and that felt ok. Very ok. Natural. Not a sexual excitement, but secure and sure. 

Was this kicked off by your son's Father's Day post, seeing photos of you? Maybe. Or by yesterday's reveal by my partner (or, "partner"?) which got me thinking about security and reality and love? Maybe. I should have reached out, asked more questions, spent more time. Honestly, you shouldn't have fucking died before we could talk more. I might be kind of mad about that, at both of us. 

Is it weird that I miss you? The imagined can be better than the real, I guess. 

For Steve

Last night, I saw the news that Steve had died. It came as a shock, crushing news at an already somewhat fragile time for me. I had just wished him happy birthday the previous day. He hadn’t responded, but that wasn’t unusual, though he also hadn’t responded to my Christmas message which I did find a little strange. We could go for long periods of time out of touch before reconnecting and sending long missives back and forth for a couple of days before drifting apart again.

He was a gruff old farmer, a punk rock musician, an amazing single dad, a fierce advocate of farmland and small business and integrity, a tractor fixer-upper. He was a friend.

I first met him when I was a member of his CSA, when my now-huge firstborn child was a squishy little newborn who nearly fell out of the sling I wore him in, into a bin of zucchini when I was picking up my weekly farm share. Steve was gruff and funny and kind and he pulled no punches. He was fair, and he was ornery as fuck about topics he was passionate about.

We got closer in the aftermath of what I will refer to as his Very Bad Year, when he shared with me the heartache and truth behind the headlines. I believed in him, and I advocated for him, though it was hard for him to regain his market footing after that.

We last spoke in October; we had some good conversations last fall, and I felt as close as ever to him and kept meaning to go see his new place in western Massachusetts, though we weren’t the type to visit each other. The last time I saw him, he was coming through town on a scrap pickup mission, and we sat on my front steps talking, and laughing--when he got back into his truck, I was nearly doubled over at one of his typical hilariously crude jokes (about religion and sex, if you must know). Honestly, we had a longtime joking flirtation thing going on, a light running joke that we’d probably end up together in the end, when we were old and scraggy and no one else could tolerate us (and do NOT come at me about how this was unfair to any of my past lovers/boyfriends/partners--this was always in the realm of somewhere between a joke and a dream, not a plan and not reality, just our running joke).

He'd asked me more than once to help him write and edit his memoirs, and we'd talk about it, and he'd tell me some gems from his very colorful life, and we'd veer off onto the details of whatever situation he'd just told me about, and we never did make a plan to get that all down on paper.

There's been too much loss recently, and this one really hurts, because unlike heartbreak it can’t be talked through, most of the gravel picked out of the wound until it can heal into some level of closure and loving friendship. This is fucking unexpected and permanent with too much left unsaid that will have to forever remain unsaid--certainly not unrequited love, not at all, but a longtime mutual something, I don’t know what.

Rest in peace, Steve. I wasn’t done talking with you and I can’t believe you’re gone.