You said post-apocalypse

but this is apocalypse itself:
the air the colour of creamsicles
thick as porridge
obscuring the mountains
and even nearby cars.

this is apocalypse itself:
ash sifting down
whitening my truck in the mornings
and snowing on my hair
as I water my garden.

this is apocalypse itself:
eyes stinging over the dubious
air sucking through my mask
and the hammer of annihilated trees
hitting my lungs with every door opened.

this is apocalypse itself
as it is in story
as it is in song
as it is in paintings:
sun orange through an orange sky at noon
fire everywhere
and only dust underfoot.

***

Thoughts on looking at an evacuation alert near my home

So many years we didn't even realize we weren't winning
Secure in our delusion as a dominant species.
We thought we could control the trees because we could cut them down
Thought we could control the water because we could put up dams
Thought we had dominion over animals because we could kill them.
On our maps everything was known, and was ours.

We make new maps now.
Where once we had roads, boundaries, ownership by this or that person
Now we have lands we have surrendered.
Orange and red crawl across the roads, across forests, obscuring them
From our ways of controlling. They seize back control
With each lick of flame, each curl of smoke, pushing and pushing
Until our maps give way.

There be monsters, the maps say,
As they did before, this land is no man's. Fire, drought, flood:
Now who controls the trees by killing? Who holds back the water from falling? Who devours the animals?
We surrender to the supremacy of the monsters
As we once did
So we do again
And again
And again
With our new maps washed in red.

(no subject)

I have to take such good care of myself

Like a new puppy who needs to learn
Through play and patience
And be loved even while learning

Like a new chick which,
After such struggle breaking the shell
Needs warmth and gentle handling to dry and strengthen

Like a tiny root emerging from a seed
That needs water, nuture, and sunlight to grow

Like an old shed that's stood against the snow and sun so many years
And needs, not just a careful coat of paint
But also old moldy planks to be removed and replaced with fresh strong wood

Like a garden on the cusp of summer
With fruit just starting to swell
That needs watering nearly every day

I have to take such good care of myself
And I do
Cringing sometimes
Shivering sometimes
Cracking sometimes
Sagging sometimes
Wilting sometimes
Sometimes?
Every time
That I fail.

(no subject)

The mechanic writes his notes in Arabic and says
You're doing your farm all alone, you tell me what you can afford
And just pay that.
While we go back and forth refusing to name numbers
He fixes my headlights
Casually
Without even asking.

On the way home I scroll through my playlists
Find "it's ok"
Pull off my mask
And sing along in the stinging smoke for the first time in a month.

When I get home my new dog
Learning quickly, forbears to take my arm in her mouth
Instead she somersaults into my lap
Upside-down, legs splayed,
Panting with bright eyes.

The whole time I fit words together
Discard them
Fit them again.

There's no graceful way to say
Sometimes I want to be loved just suddenly,
Without asking.

(no subject)

Other people get writer's block
I get doing block
Sitting in the car on my way to-
Pulling over by the side of the road to-
Bending over the keyboard at work instead of-
I'll get up for dinner in a second and-
Turn off the light, I need to sleep so-

None of that.
Just words, and a place to write them.