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Photo by Alex Zarate on Unsplash

The hawk comes every day now.
He swept across my vision that first time
seizing my attention like unwary prey
landed just outside the window
and hunched down to stare at me.
I have seen eagles up close
crows, cormorants, herons
all unmistakably lovely
but this was different.

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Photo by Author

Rain falls in tireless ribbons
drifting down from a silver sky
like wet tinsel on a sodden tree.
The cold hides inside my clothing
clings to my skin in thin, icy layers
draws its fingers at last into my bones.
And yet I cannot stop looking
cannot help but raise my face to the mist
for a last kiss before going indoors.
There I will throw more wood on the fire
and huddle close enough to combust.

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Photo by Author

Surely we weren’t meant
to walk alone.
These days I force myself outdoors
without picking up a leash
without pocketfuls of treats
or a ball in hand.
I scarcely know how to move
my hands fall at my sides
foolish empty things.

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Doorways. Photo by Author.

I step out into dusk after a difficult day
spent wrestling demons indoors.
Wind shushes in the treetops
and something heavy lifts off my shoulders.
Tall spirits walk beside me in the dark
I can’t explain how I know this
but if you were here you would feel them too.

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Photo by Carlos Kenobi on Unsplash

Some days being alive
is harder than others.
Today a cloudbank sat on my chest
weighed me down
pulled me under.
Restless, I tried for breath
came up with only bubbles:
not enough for my blood
that grows richer by the day.

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Photo by Jeremy Bishop on Unsplash

We go out into the cold
and black of a new-moon night
climbing down slick boulders
to feel our way toward the sea,
three women seeking treasure.
We are blind except for the lamps
arrowing through curtains of fog
we make with our breath.
We follow instinct toward the water’s edge
which has receded so far
we cannot reach it.
The smell of her, though: brine
and blood, seaweed and salt
tells us Ocean is near. She
mirrors our own scent and soul
and we cannot steal from her
without stealing from ourselves.

A Brief Meditation on Pleasure

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Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

My body is a beehive
humming from root to crown
filled with the nectar of desire
its borders laced in sacred geometry.

But Not Through Social Media

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Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

I recently witnessed a creature I thought had gone extinct: a dinner party my mother hosted, where Democrats and Republicans got into the same room and nobody started a fight. My parents are old-school. As far as they’re concerned, there’s no reason not to stay friends with the people they’ve been hanging out with since the Carter administration.

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Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

Driving down the highway
weeping so hard the windshield fogs up
steering with my knee while I blow my nose
is just a thing I do now.

Kara B. Imle

Memoirist. Poet. SourcePoint practitioner and Rolfer. Living on a small island off the western edge of sanity.

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