And all I can do
is sketch their golden petals,
blow them to the sky.

*

A midnight carries them, even in day.
Who hears their cries?
Hearts pressed down by heavy flight,
until a sudden spark—
gold petals cutting the dark sky—
blooms from within.

Poem and digital art by Michele

i collect computer generated videos of scenes from my dreams
populating at seeming random in the swishing current of my phone

worshiping recreations of tsunamis and broken stairs as prophecies

behind my screen the children snark and pet one another
red apples at the center of each chest, dewy and rattling

find myself believing the rotten ones are rotten for good, worm emptied

i know it’s wrong

/

in the hot summer shower
i élevé onto the balls of my feet

baste myself to make my body
flee

naked in the mirror
i become a swan

wake up crushed and immediately
reinflate

it just takes a second

5:30 mountain dark
and I’m on the porch,
my coffee in a mug
with mother on it
holding a gun
the only time in her
84 years she shot one.
I open a fancy
journal Murdy made
me, to somehow
write myself
back to myself.
Gonna lock in
and crack, discover
something new
in the dusty corners 
of my tumult
kind of vibe.
I grabbed the wrong 
journal as I tiptoed
the quiet house.
It’s an old one, 
already filled
front to back
with my pleading,
raging, documenting,
and navel-gazing.
There is no room
for a new thought.
So I read my past
repetitions, 
listen to the garbage 
truck and the redbirds
chip hello
to this day, in which
I won’t be able to help
just being my
same ol’ self, again.

Our family lived in the city, on a tree lined street.
One windless evening, about dusk, a whip-poor-will paid a call.
Most often, one never sees the nocturnal fauna.
That evening, just before darkness settled in,
the sound brought us close to a tree across the street.
Perched above us we could see it in sharp view.
It was my first actual sighting.
I thought of the years previous to that night.
Before the children beside me had come to be.
The time when I worked and slept in the thick of the trees.
Close to the ground, no sound just at dark.
The call started out a long ways away.
Barely audible, the notes became clear as it flew closer.
By the fifth time I heard the call,
the sound seemed to be up in a tree next to me.
The invisible creature called a few more times.
With a slight rustle, it flew away.
The plumage of this bird is a brindled brown and gray.
Almost impossible to see during the day
as its features blend with bark and leaf in perfect camouflage.
That distinctive melodious music has no resemblance
to the sight we saw on Westwood Drive.
The mystery of the complicated lives of our fellow forest inhabitants
is left in the silence that remains.
The irony of seeing this bird in the city,
after living in the woods for years and hearing but not seeing,
produces a smile and a question.
Why did this woodland aviator pay us a visit?
I tried to impart the excitement to my city dwelling children.
They dutifully look at me, appearing to pay attention.
After some minutes I release them.
They run back to the trampoline, their first love.
I stay with the whip-poor-will,
who flies away.  I bid farewell.    

Pay me out in power
over the dead skin
peeling off my shoulder blades.
Let it wash down the drain
in a simple exchange
of can and can’t do. 

Watch the larks sing along
to the humble melodies 
you created.
Know that you have it
whatever you choose to believe 
it is yours. 

my body, a bank
of broken toys
carrying the noise
of childhood

playing hard
no stretch too far
running barefoot
from wrath so fast
when broken glass
caught my toes
keeping up
with those

needing proof
of my worth
they only wanted
to play war
so topsy turvy
when children score

so I cut the hair
off all my dolls
prepared myself
for future falls

Until fireflies
came to share
their light
each day and night
they flanked
my fears
Each notch
I gained
a fortune banked

Tree Spirits

The clouds overhead today

are black as coal,

and the wind

is threatening.

I’m gathering blueberries

with the baby on my hip

when we both hear it

the slow,

steady creaking

of the branches above.

She points up,

and I politely ask,

Are the tree spirits speaking today?

If in the darkness
I found them

I wonder what the light
will bring

If my empty cup
found water

I am interested to see
who my full cup
will meet

Who will water the garden?
Who will speak good spells over me?

I wonder,

who will take the extra time
to love and know me.

I wonder who sees it’s worth it
to hold my hand as I sleep.

Who will plant the garden,

and walk through it with me?

Who will meet me in the sunlight,

and help me plant the seeds?

Who shits?
She shits.
She shits in a she-shit shed.

She shits in a bucket.
A bucket?
Fuck it.
Shit in a bucket in a she-shit shed.

Grandpa and eight-year-old
play pitch for the first time.

Baseball bleach white
fresh from the store.

Grass green,
breeze steady.

Grandpa in heaven
Always wanted to do this with his daughter.

Too high strung,
would get angry if the ball wasn’t thrown

right where she wanted it.
Always ended in raging and tears.

Grandson a flexible
easy going partner

Never gets mad,
never impatient.  

Grandpa savors the long-desired moment,
then finds himself grieving for all of the missed opportunities

with the generation in between.