This Love Is a Hyperlocation

This Love Is a Hyperlocation

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We sit inside the flannel-soft whoosh
of the new dishwasher's first run.
We feel rich here, even on the floor
where I pick at crumbs along the drawers,
your paws folded into my lap.
Located outside myself,
I most often travel a lost map
as if through Alice's mirror,
but this love is a hyperlocation,
a here-ness that cannot be won but found,
a rare mushroom in the woods.
Your old, furry chest beats against my palm.


April is National Poetry Month, so I’m publishing poetry for NaPoWriMo throughout the month.

Drawing Up Plans Like War's Coming

Drawing Up Plans Like War's Coming

This Desert

This Desert