Even more distilled than short stories is the poem.
This is a first draft. Today I erase
This is a day. Hours of waking until you stop resisting the call to rise.
Loose water over your head, a ritual
The preparation for leaving one's house a rite of passage--
one sock right shoe cap jaunted over left ear
Cold today. The dance to keep off the rain has failed.
I am not prepared for the kiss
of frost upon my cheeks.
I am not prepared for this wasteland of song,
melodies cut and discarded like so many curls of wood
from the hull of a boat.
To carry your cares in my arms
fragile as snowflakes
I cannot breathe for fear they will melt
I have forgotten what it means to be a part of someone else.