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Woman, mom, teacher, writer, unicorn-lover, tree-hugger, magic-seeker, fox spirit, crier, human. Writing about life: my years of drinking and my awakening.
Image by kinkate from Pixabay

Have we met before?
Before you rose
like a purple cherub
from my womb
Before you fluttered
your butterfly wings
in my stomach
Before the kiss
of your imagined existence
settled itself
inside the chalk of my bones
Before you waited
ephemeral and ancient
a pause
in the company of star stuff?

We’ve met before
I’m sure;
In a meadow
Under a mushroom
On a dust mote
Through a sunbeam
In the space between electrons
Under the crook of an arm of a galaxy
Behind the pupil of an eye
In the crater of a hawk moon.

Vixen Lea is…

Image by author

Hello. My name is Vixen Lea and I have been Razzle-Dazzle for 1000 days.

January 7, 2018 is the day that I made the decision to quit drinking.

It seems like such a small thing when you look at the words of it: I Decided to Quit Drinking. Like I just made a decision and then that was that and all was good in the world. But of course, it’s so much more nuanced than that.

I was SO AFRAID. It was like I was about to say Goodbye to my entire Being; like I was going to strip off all of my layers of self that I had spent the last 25 years…

Image by author | all rights reserved

a poem of greenness

a poem of amalgamation

Image by author

maybe I could just step out onto the sidewalk and the Hand of God would reach down and pat me heartily on the back, give my palm a firm shake, and pull me, finally, through the doorway of my life — for once,

maybe the bottom step would actually be there, and I wouldn’t go rocketing through the sub-flooring into the underworld and down the gullet of that 3-headed dog, churning me up like so many undigestible ham hocks — for once,

maybe I would wake up in a room on a bed with a pillow of feathers, and not…

a poem of wandering

Photo by Ziyan Junaideen on Unsplash

morning hangs heavy
my preoccupations
even to the
tiny creatures
of the suburban
what with their
-tsk tsk tsk-
red bird yellow bird
buzzing bird
fat bird;
the staccato worrying
of my coffee companions
much more
much more
than the
muggy smear
that knits across
the width of
my forehead
my curse
of higher
we spend our lives
trying to escape it
with dollars
and distractions
(maybe we can
out-party it
out-sweat it
outrun it
outwit it)
no no no,
taps the
rattling his
perfectly simple
silly humans
there is no thinking
away the thinking…

A poem of compartmentalizing

Photo by Dan Gold on Unsplash

I don’t have time to fall apart;
I have laundry to fold.

I don’t have time today
to flip through the microfiche
of archived traumas,
to go back to 1982
and scrape my inner child
up off elementary asphalt.

I don’t have time
to determine
who poured water
on all these gremlins,
or how to unstick
my stuck desire.

I cannot fit in today
the minutes it will take
to shatter into pieces
on the bathroom floor
and reapply my mascara
before school pickup.

Today there is just coping;
The feelings will have to wait.

Vixen Lea is a mother…

a poem of tidying

Image by author | enhanced with PhotoGrid

If I could gather up
all the dust
that started blowing off me
since 1994,
since I began disintegrating,
since the whirlwind
first started to swirl,
since the unicorns
galloped back up their rainbows,
since lost things
kept finding their way in;

If I could sweep it
back up into a me-shaped pile,
a heap of minuscule pieces
stacked to five foot five
with moss-green eyes,

Would I find
that it was more human
than this fleshy sack of remnants
I am lugging today?

Vixen Lea is a mother to two small children and a number of animals, but first…

a story in prosetry and spoken word

Photo by Juha Lakaniemi on Unsplash

I followed him to the jail, but the bars of justice were too weak to hold him, and they dissolved under the weight of he-said-she-said; he slipped through, dripped through like ooze, like slime, like the slippery dicks who say we’re always asking for it anyway.

Some time later I put a dead crow on the windshield of his car, parked in front of my house, a big beater of a thing, all rims and misplaced testosterone; he was my neighbor after all, and after all that he still couldn’t keep that rusty bumper from crossing over into my space…

a poem of spiraling (and hope)

Image by author | enhanced with PhotoGrid

A switch flips
and panic
wraps my brain

a rope tightens
round the
of my mind

and I spin
caught and cursed
like a beat dog chasing
his own behind

through this insanity
I never promised you

through this calamity
of twisted thoughts
I never wanted you


sliding like sand
on sand
on sand
on mountains

of sand
and I am buried
from the neck up

guts flayed
mind screaming
Shut up

to its self
Shut up

to its trip
Shut up

why so fucked up
on repeat

Image courtesy of author | Author retains all rights

A haiku

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