In the emptiness where depression sleeps,

I washed my grief down with a chianti-dark river, 

its bitter currents singing me into numbness. 

I raised a toast to the starless sky, my glass 

a mausoleum of denial, reflecting  

only what I wished to see. 

I wore the music like a second skin, 

let it vibrate through my bones, 

tried to shake the sadness away, 

dancing with the shadows of dust left behind. 

I sought solace in the twist of my curls, 

hoping my own reflection would morph  

into someone I don’t remember.  



What few coins I had, I tossed in the air,  

wishing on each as it fell, until the balance ran crimson,

debt blooming like roses on my credit card. 

I unknotted love from my life,  

hoping for solace in solitude, 

believing that a lonely heart heals quicker. 

It still clung to me: a bitter cologne in the summer heat.

Then I outran the sun, crossing borders,  

but melancholy claimed me in every time zone. 

In the circles of busyness, I ran, 

whirling dervish, spinning out of control, 

became as dizzying as what was within— 

my world, a blur.

i read somewhere

that a group of ladybugs is called

          a loveliness. and i wonder

what the person who gave them

that name (surely someone of at least

              measurable humanity) knew,

or thought they did, about what love

—what kind, specifically—so embeds

            itself in a thing that the thing,

subsequently, becomes an embodiment

of that love: the way river breaks into current;

the way trees make forest, simply

             by standing closer to each other

than to anything else…

               …by which I mean: i need you

to tell me which of my black spots

             you find loveliest. which interruption

of my red feels most human

to the forest of your fingers; the current

            you river into touch

along my breaking skin.