Category Archives: The Liminal Times

Handprints

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we learn to keep climbing
even when the ledge
doesn’t promise shit.

a good reach,
a little strength,
that’s all the world asks
and maybe
a small kindness
on the way up.

because the climb
doesn’t end at the step,
it ends when you stop
believing there’s one more.

so you believe,
not because you’re holy
or brave,
but because someone once
pulled you up,
and their handprint
never left your skin.

Backbeat

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I have danced in public once in my life.
For my wedding.
Took a lesson.

But I secretly dance every day,
though I guess it’s no longer a secret.

For the dogs,
and the setting shadow
against the back wall.

All attempted rhythms
and contorted shapes,
but my Byrne is spot on.

They know:
if sound and fury
finds a backbeat,
it signifies everything.

And sometimes,
when the song ends
and the room cools again,

I stand still in the quiet.
One breath,
two,
and wait to see
if the house will dance back.

Most nights it doesn’t.
But some evenings,
the dogs catch it:
their paws thump the floor,
their tails swing in time,
and the room moves again,
alive in its own applause.

The Passing Through

The Passing Through

I am a body of small weather,
a wind through larger winds.

Nothing stays mine:
the scent of oranges,
the hush of dusk,
the stray dog nosing a wrapper.

But everything touches me for a second
and goes on.

I once thought I was the keeper,
hands cupped around what mattered.
Now I know I am the passing-through,
the brief warmth on a windowpane.

I give nothing back but this stirring,
this leaning toward.
The world holds.