What’s Wrong with Maybe?*

Maybe I’m the sugar that pours into tea,

the spiral of honey that hummed

the knowledge of enough.

I’m porous, but also a cold marble

in the center of a palm.

A plumed wing of a moth, an electric

guitar prelude.

My existence is close today— handheld—

as if to say: Maybe I’m here because of

a miracle not a mirage

*Title is a line from Mary Oliver's poem "The World I Live In"

Recent Posts

To slip into the silk of another existence: shovel soil and mulberry leaves into my senses, spin fibers of a delicate shroud. If there is...

A jagged thing to put in my pocket, to be rounded into a smoother stone. I try to compress it until it can fit in a locket. A token, a...

A mile from my house, wisteria grows in front yards, trailing telephone poles and fences. Its purple bubbles from scratchy-looking...