Parking Lot Aubade

Poem #9

Impossible romances, 
I tell myself they
only happen when I’m reading;
I see a plum, pink and feral,
consumed by mistletoe, and
I start to feel a little differently.

The blossoming is stifled 
by those stubborn
green puffball parasites—
what I thought to be spring
is merely another awakening.

When we choose, it is
often forgetting.
One wrong surpasses
another, imposes
itself in the lining of the mind like
the crow that lands on the plum tree—to start
my morning with you
is one of these choices.

Impossible romances, 
I remind myself,
are based on someone’s
ontology; someone’s
phoradendron heart
blooming
into another’s plum.

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Thank you for reading the ninth installment of my poetry series. Since my recent move to Portland, I’ve been adjusting to being in a new environment, and I haven’t had a lot of time to dedicate to my editing process. I struggle with bursts of creativity, productive days that leave me exhausted and kill my motivation for at least a week. I’m trying to incorporate my writing more into my daily practice by making it a part of my to-do list. It ends up looking sort of like this:

• resume

• put away laundry

• edit poems/substack post

• library job apps

• style poetry bookcase

• PUT AWAY LAUNDRY!

• list items on marketplace

• organize jewelry box

• smog check/DMV

• dinner???