About Elea Lee

Foster parent, adopting parent, family advocate, educator, homeschool parent

I lay me down

Each night

I lay me down, a pallet on the floor, a narrow triangle of sky,

For a few minutes

I can still hear the

Foot traffic up and down the stairs of Village B

All I wanted from your beating heart, carefully crafted rib cage

To be the one to stop the ache, the insomniac’s geography

Years stretch out

before–patchwork fields grazed by supine clouds

Or behind–the long train

Of a wedding dress

Silken and full of promise

1 Corinthians 15:55

This is so I will remember:

First there was the darkness, warm wooden slats beneath my feet

The thing I could not see yet

As I flung the tapestry of the towel up toward the line

A sudden, unforeseen

Stab of pain and fire and fury

As the clean, damp laundry fell across my face

I stumbled into the sunroom

Dropped the washing


It hurts so much

People I love tend my single wound

Just over the left eye

Baking soda paste, analgesic, antihistamines

Soon it is not as bad

As I sleep I can feel the swelling, so pronounced on the left I am afraid the eye will be temporarily unusable

I wake up with swollen eyes, raccoonish

Was there some way I could have drained out the poison? Was there more I could have done?

The night it happens, I murder all the wasps and all their young with thin streams of caustic

Wasp spray

And vengeance.

All day i can feel the swelling, I take my medicine


But on the morning of the third day

I can feel the deep, intractable itch

The toxins have flooded in

And I know it isn’t over yet

Prayer to the Prodigal God

Oh Prodigal God,

Hear my call, and forgive my faith of rags and tatters. You are the God of sombrero galaxies and horseshoe crabs, God of immaculate wonders, yet my biggest fault is underestimating You, not asking more, not asking for more eternal, not standing in insouciant confidence on all you have already done for me.

Heal this child, oh beautiful Splendor, heal this child, my dearest Love. All my broken words are not enough to draw a rough chalk effigy

of the single, seamless garment

You are spinning out around all of us

Saturated, incandescent


Squint into the sun

The old woman (who once was beautiful) pondered what to say to the young, hypothetical, and inevitably naive bride and groom.

After 30 years it came to her–allow yourself one

Magnificent affair

Beyond this rickety and impoverished union

With the One who made the sun

Cabin Fever

The little one has a rough night. I make a weak slurry of medicine and hold him, curl his hand around mine, stroke his faintly chlorine-y hair, wonder if Carver was a victim of genital mutilation or just the usual cascade of indelible tragedies? How can we ever staunch the wounds?

Sir, what must I do to be saved? Sell all you have, he says, knowing my weakness, I cannot sell this feeling:

Love left behind


I had the most peculiar experience with this binary interface I have come to rely on I wrote soot and it told me I was wrong, no such word emerged from its memory. Perhaps I meant “soothe?”

I did not, and I followed soot down the wormhole of synonyms…for burnt bits of things, smoke, fire, and ash…and even then I had to go to the long answer, queued behind the others

Google was once just a really big number. Apple was a fruit. But what if they take us? Take our words and all the memory of them?

What will we have then?