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So, I definitely broke the “no bs” rule last night. The thing is, I missed my friend Jennifer and her family so much that I didn’t want to stop hanging out. I think it still counts as poeming, though, because the inspiration has to come from life, and last night my life rocked. Actually, my life rocks all the time. Livin’ it.

What I did, though, was very definitely cheating. It was copy and paste cheating. At least I plagiarized myself, and no one else. It was a thing I was doing for work. Whatever. I feel okay about it. It was soulfood. I hadn’t realized how much I craved that, to be with one of my best friends in the universe. After this month, I needed it so, so much. Also, we are at the point where our kids can play together, so nicely and politely, and that is pure joy nuggets.

I have four best friends. I am so lucky. We take toe selfies–pictures of our feet in various stages of awesomeness as we walk through this world–and text and email but rarely talk on the phone anymore. I miss them all so much it makes my heart hurt, so when I have the opportunity to see them, I don’t want to take even twenty minutes away from them in order to write a poem.

My friend Jennifer is a Bad-ass with a big ole B. She is a social worker and district manager, and she helps the children of people who have it rough. She has seen some shit. There is no other word for the situations she deals with on a daily basis. I’m in awe of her. I’ve said it before, but I’m gonna say it again: WE MUST PAY THOSE WHO HELP MORE.

I’ve known Jennifer since sixth grade, and lived with her and her then-bf-now-hp- in college (and a few months in grad school before I met HP and started co-habitating with him while ostensibly still living with her). To my mind, that makes us sisters. Sisters from different misters. That’s us. I’m going to poem about it.

But first, this is what I’m listening to right now:

Sisters

My friend sister dances in her kitchen, just like I do, a
nd our moves translate onto the smaller and funnier versions of ourselves,
who wiggle just like we do, who shake their hips
and twirl and talk with their hands,
who are love nuggets full of sass and prance.

My sistersoul cares with heartknife precision
about her work and her life, her life’s work is helping,
it’s important, and she is climbing ladders, taking names,
and fighting burnout.

Her mother wisdom is contagious, her husband fixes
and tells us how to fix.
Apparently our shower is a bigger problem than we thought.
Apparently we need to fix it.

I don’t need to talk to my soul sister to hear her,
because I can read her eyebrows and fingernails.
Her boy can be my girl’s big brother,
tough and vigilant.

Cleaning out my closet, we discovered
that most of the clothes I own were hers, once.
Sorting through the second-hand books,
I feel useful, like a fire hydrant in a great burn.

The pouts on the faces of small girls
as this family of dancing light leaves for home
are testimony to this big love.

Let it be holy. Let the wee ones be sisters too.

********************

But, clearly not nuns, because our daughters raise heck. Miss you already. Listen to this cover. I know we both would have that hair if we had different jobs.

Happy Saturday, poemfriends. Happy Saturday, my besties.

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