here is something much more than okay

poem

You are living on the edge now

talking with your tealeaves

hollow marrow bone. Somewhere—

pretty fucking out there,

loveless disorder—you know (full well)

should have been wrecked (way sooner)

goes on. Memory no longer shapes heart’s desire.

But in youth there was a treehouse,

built with hands the colour strawberry.

Once done, you lay down on a wet towel

taken from an elder’s clothesline.

Up there you counted stars (and scars)

until broke even. The secrets, stolen from a homelife

like jar pennies, they taught you how to worship

mother earth. But you have not yet swallowed

enough sins to realise—

there will always be aftertaste.

A dice roll, a riptide you never see coming

is here. Good luck.