The flowers wilted before I got home. I put them in a vase anyway. A spot of color, even dead color, is better than none at all. Besides, it was possible they’d revive. They didn’t, but I kept them until the petals fell and the water turned to green slime. That’s when it got interesting. I pulled out my kid’s microscope and discovered a primordial soup of beastly microbes eating, killing, dying, and having sex just like us. I didn’t create life, but I made it possible. Omnipotent me. Except they didn’t know I existed. What’s more, they didn’t care.

Deer Legs

watching my father
string the soft spots
in deer legs


It is hard to not hate
myself, the self who’d rather/ turn inward as dusk spirals
into its Tang dissolve. And isn’t ruin, too,/ a thing to celebrate?