This Old House

Hips creak and moan like the wood floorthey clatter against. Pangeaic forms,tectonic shifts, I roll from left to right.Your precious breath tides in and out.I bear witness to your being, eachachy joint erodes slowly over time. Your house once, these hips wereA-frame, your growing flesh crochetedwithin. The time came, they unfurledpetals to push you down…


You have beautiful breath, she said.She of height and grace,enviable warrior on the mat.I, small, round, soft in her presence,off balance, out of focus,exhaled my envy and sipped gratitudelike sweet iced tea on an August afternoon.

Pandemic Family

Doors shuttered. Connections frayed– we were downed power lines, sparks in wind. The only way, together, we built fires in the dark. Or, we were sailors on a current flowing to the world’s end. What monsters swam the deep where our bow would tip and plummet? Then, news came. New life. Our hopes and fears…

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“Jess’ writing is delicious. Thoughtful, savory, the visuals she creates in scene descriptions capture the imagination and sweep the reader into the moment. The path we travel with the reader is a delight!”

– Katie Colt, goodkitty