Grocery List

Bread. Milk. Eggs. We're running low on dish soap. Get Dawn, it works better. Compassion, if you can find it. I haven't seen it in a while. Just check. Apples. A green vegetable for dinner tomorrow. Maybe broccoli or asparagus. Whatever looks fresh. Understanding. I used the last when Uncle Pete got drunk at James and Danny's wedding. Tomatoes. Spaghetti noodles. A sense of humor. Not the store brand that relies on slapstick gags and potty jokes - something more refined. Mint. Passion. Not that kind, we still have plenty. The fist shaking kind. Like the night I met your brother for the first time and he said writing wasn't a real job. Your words left deep red gashes on his ego. Read the label. Be sure it has lots of conviction - and bubbles. Movie theater butter microwave popcorn. Accountability. I thought we had enough but after last night - when you yelled at the dog because he got into the bag of Doritos you left of the coffee table. You should pick some up. And some Doritos. Self worth. I am tired of crying because the clothes will never look as good on me as they do on the faceless mannequins at Kohl's, comparing myself to the airbrushed teenagers on the magazine covers. And you, your stomach in knots over things you should have said, should have done. So afraid no one will like your poems - or worse, no one will listen - that you give up with the words half written. You may have to go to more than one store. Maybe a dozen. Paper plates. Ground beef. Hope.

Family Symphony

My family is like an orchestra. My sister is the violin. She is always the center of attention; filling the halls of our house with her dramatic melody like the treble diva fills the concert hall. My mother comes in second, but only by a measure. She is the cello, carrying my sister's melody just an octave below. Her voice floats under my sister's but is never lost. I am the viola. I hide in the music, supporting the melodies of my sister and mother, without drawing too much attention; stealing the spotlight every once in a while, just to keep the audience guessing. My father is the bass. He is slow and steady, the rhythm that holds us together. He keeps the tempo so we don't rush or lose our place on the page. But sometimes, he is a jazz bass, in a smoky blues bar, so full of soul and beauty that the rest of our orchestra falls silent.

Letters to a Friend

You deserve handmade paper
With crimson silk thread curling through the pulp
Heavy enough to support these emotions.
But sometimes there is only cheap, lined notebook paper
And an open heart.