Poems About L

Today you are one year closer to something—not death, not wisdom, not the person you planned to be by now, but something.

You are not the poem I set out to write. You are the poem that wrote itself—sideways, surprising, with terrible spelling and the most honest last line.

"Thin" and "slender" mean the same thing except they don't.

My sister knows the password to every secret I've owned since 1996,

You will outgrow shoes. This is expected. You will outgrow clothes, bedrooms.

The birds don't care that you're trying to sleep. They have a concert.

It's raining again and I have nowhere to be angry about it.

Everyone is clean today. Fresh calendars. Fresh starts.

Wales doesn't shout. Wales hums. It hums in the valleys where the coal used to live.

Fire knows one thing: how to eat. It eats wood. It eats paper.

The line goes out. The line comes back empty. This is the lesson: most of what you cast into the world returns without what you wanted.

This morning you stood at the mirror and cursed your hair with a creativity