All the Ugly Little Things We Make For Eachother

The ugly little cakes we make to celebrate the most perfect fact that someone we love exists for

yet another year, affection baked into the stodgy center. The ugly little homemade presents, the

poorly knitted scarves and lopsided cups from a beginner pottery class, the tangles of badly

wire-wrapped rocks from river beds we kissed at, bulky embroidery lumped across the collar of

a thrifted shirt. Stupid hand-drawn coupons for silly dates, hearts scribbled around the corner, a

cute and messy yearning. Scraggly houseplant clippings exchanged in scrubbed jam jars filled

with browning water or quickly potted in a chipped mug. Crocheted hats too small for your

head, that big brain filled with bigger thoughts, fermented cider from apples picked by hand,

too much carbonation, an ugly little bottle of devotion exploding in your cupboard, a drenching

tenderness.

All my best gifts are these ugly little things,

the things that mean the most,

the things that say -

For you, I tried something new.

For you, I tried something hard.

For you, I am humbled.

For you, my love muscles will always be flexing.

For you,

I strive to create something

out of nothing

because you deserve everything.

See it crawl, second by fucking second,

the time between oil poured in pan and kernels

popping. Watch the corn shiver in anticipation as the liquid teases at its little points, pulls at the

globe of its body, laps over their trembling golden edges. The burner pulses a fiery red and cools

into black, again and again and again. It's a delicious torture, the waiting. The hot butter melts

in a metal cup on the next burner over, and its fatty bubbling begs to be poured. On the counter

beside I arrange the seasonings, one held in a glass jar, edges firm and cold to the touch, the

other in a bulk bin bag, plastic thin as a whisper. At last! The first kernel pops, bursting from its

shell, turning inside out mid air, its new form a performance of porous peaks. A celebration

ensues, each and every one of them following suit, transforming, and the pan is overflowing!

Lid tossed off, the kernels flinging themselves from the oil in absolute ecstasy, oh it is a sight to

behold! You corral them into a silver bowl, careful with their still-hot edges, and drizzle the

liquid butter across them. With the other hand you shower them in seasonings, bits of salt and

garlic and nutritional yeast swirling all around you. Everything is as it should be, the ratios are

perfect, the bowl a cornucopia of texture and flavor. The feast is just as you'd imagined, and

when you fall asleep the kernel lodged between your molars finds its way into your dreams.

Bogachiel Rearing Pond

Grandpa,

My chubby fingers don’t reach for yours.

Those gnarled traps have closed throats but

your stubborn blood pumps hot in my cheeks and

I shuffle closer to you, your mossy oak sweater, your stink of old blood.

Woke up early enough to see the elk in the field across the street,

the mist so thick it tangled in their antlers like melancholy

and I felt it wanting me.

Hot chocolate gone cold in my styrofoam cup,

The yawn of a fishing pole, cast,

pissin’ down rain, you say,

tiny nibbles tug and you tell me to reel ‘er in

but these 5 year old muscles ain't good for shit

and you end up doing it for me,

killing it for me,

and I watch but don’t feel much.