No one was left standing at the edge of the battle. The men, horizontal, wept in fox holes.
The sky sings rain to green and clean us.
I sent you many letters, 26 to be exact, A-Z. Why won’t you read—are you lazy, bored, or afraid?
Facebook creates community yet procrastinates people. The happy medium? Yes, for everything: the steadying branch you whittle and own.
When I grow up, I want to be a lunch box that children open, peer inside.
I have told all the others.
Why can’t you determine the real me of three and show me—hold the mirror up and see yourself?
I swear I see you there—hiding—in your skin as if you belonged.
I am writing many sentences. I am writing. Many. There are sandwiches for everyone. Yes, a picnic in the rain. Bring your sadness. Bring your laughter and surprise. We will be wise again. I promise.
AFFIRMATIONS  – KEY OF S
I have wrapped the fallen in the requisite white cloths and written a sentence for each in permanent ink that even the torrential rains couldn’t disturb.
You will tell me: what it was like there stuck above glass waiting for the silk sandfall to slip sane-ness [sameness] again. It must have hurt very much, which is why you do not talk.
So you invented a chain of catharsis, a different fence, safe, for becoming someone brave. Tiny dramas that found you noble in behavior and thought, a team player on your own team for once, an origami uniform with the most unusual font [fountain]. I know.
I have such secrets stitched in the hem of my too-long skirt. There is a danger of stumbling into stone, so I pick up the fabric and tip chin back to sky.
There are pens, too, sewn into the borders. Sometimes they are heavy. Sometimes they sprout sudden blackbird wings, musical notes. You have seen [heard] them and looked away to grant me some privacy, and I must thank you for that.
The sun has poked its head, made its grand entrance, bells and whistles, bagpipes and gamelan. The children have lined up for the parade, ready to catch candy, their own surprise.
Like you, I shall be human again.
You must tell the others I am coming, that I am on the way not spoken, the way not broken, the way the sun came back. You must speak of the silk that was stuck, how it still slips through the hourglass.
[published in CRISIS CHRONICLES 2013]