Free: 5.25.16

“I would like to die


among the flowers,”

you said suddenly,

wet undershirt in one hand,

pinched clothespin

in the other.

“It is so very beautiful.”

I looked up

from the weeds and black flies

alarmed, shattered out of my

youthful reverie

like a fire extinguisher

from glass.

This was fifteen years ago,

and I thought,

“No, you can never leave us.”

But from that uneven ground,

on the paving stones

between the peonies

and the clothesline,

you have assuredly

stumbled towards freedom.

And today,

molting the shell of this life,

you’ve cut the lines

that anchored us to you.

For a moment,

we drift ethereal,

then tie our lines to the living,

to the May trees,

to what is left in this quiet bowl

of sunlight and soil.

(For Luis Batlle, who left this earth today)

Free: 5.24.2016


Posted by Gabriella.

Free 5.22.16

by jade crystal harmon


A streak of orange across the lawn.

Fast paws in tall grass. A very small mouse somersaults through the air. We run through the yard, but the movement catches the boy’s eye.

Leave the cat alone, I say, jogging away.

Curiosity’s magnets slow the boy’s limbs and pull him toward the little scene of hunter and prey. He does not turn away.

Come on! Let’s go! Bet I’ll get to the lilacs first!

Now he’s stopped, feet bare in damp grass, watching hard, race forgotten.

Okay, just don’t go near him. Okay? Let him finish. The mouse may be hurt.

He does not listen as my words lob around him. About the mouse nests in my folded up quilts, the grains of poop across the counter, the territory line between species.

He doesn’t hear as I explain about hunters only choosing the weak, the old. I see that this mouse is very small, a baby.

They have hundreds of babies a summer, I say, as he inches closer. The words pile up in drifts around him

I turn to pull sticky, climbing weeds off of the daylilies. When I look up, he is grinning into his cupped hands. The cat is circling him, sniffing the grass, confused.

The boy is holding the tenderized mouse in his hands, close to his face.
He’s picked it up, right from the cat’s paws.

I run to him. It does not move, but it’s still alive.

It’s sooooooo cute, he says.

It’s in shock, I say, maybe dying. No blood, but we can’t see inside.

He is staring at the mouse. We can’t let it die, he says. Let’s set it free.

Mama, that’s the plan.

And so the cat is lured away with treats.

The mouse is placed near the sandbox, covered with ripped up grass for camouflage. Left to be free, to die under the canopy of torn grass or burrow into the quilts this winter.


Tangled. 5.21.16

Posted By : Sarah Margaret Frye

Tangled in the beauty of the day.
Floating mind and webby thoughts.
Tangled in the beauty of the day.


Tangled: 5.19.16

Posted by:  Amber Paris

tangled up in a love affair with green






Tangled: 5.14.16

Posted by jade crystal harmon

:1: the past
I don’t remember how I learned to braid. The memory begins with me watching my eight-year-old fingers as they rapidly hooked bright strands of embroidery floss with mechanical precision. It was a super power. I watched them in awe. I could not have told you how I did it; my hands knew the equations to achieve perfect tension, the order of operations. But while they deftly wove the strings into a strong chord, the ends far below would dance and tug into a snarled ball so tangled it brought me to tears – the perfect woven symmetry crashing into chaos. It took hours to pick out those knots.


:2: the present
The preschool dropoff, children weaving the morning’s narrative: they are penguins looking for fish, smashing plastic trowels into the frozen puddles and fluffing wood chips into nests.
Mine won’t wear his mittens so we twine our fingers and avoid all the sidewalk cracks. Our nails are bitten to the quick. Did I stitch the habit into him in the womb? Our soft, sleepy morning worlds are splitting along a perforated line. I will go sit at a desk and curse casually; he will build and scribble and pee in a miniature toilet. Without me. I get it. But.
While I walk to my car in my grownup shoes, the skein between us pulls taught and twangs in the air. I’m aching to keep him close, smell his hair, but I pull and the chords stretch like putty as I drive away.
By the time the sun is tinting the tree trunks nectarine orange, we’re rolling up our skeins, magnets pulling our bodies closer, laptop bag thumping down by the rubber boots, squeezing each other over a pile of legos.
I sit back on the rug and watch in awe as the being my body made with perfect, mechanical precision moves and speaks with no help from me; synapses miraculously perform ordinary little symphonies, verbs tumble after adjectives, humor erupts. He binds me with his opinions, fabrications, coy expressions, his taste buds for sauerkraut and watermelon. I am in awe.
But it’s the witching hour, we’re all worn out, and a snarl ball is headed our way to snag the symmetry. Fortunately, practice has made my fingers a lot more patient when teasing out the knots.



Tangled: 5.17.2016

Because sometimes becoming tangled is the only way to be released.










Posted by Gabriella. See the accompanying blog post here.

Tangled 5.16.16

posted by: Lauren MacArthur

When I stop resisting


I am free.

Still tangled,

but free.


How to get there from here: 5.12.16

posted by:  Amber Paris

how to get there from here…year by year by year by year


How To Get There From Here: 5.10.2016

On foot, of course.










Posted by Gabriella.


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