If life’s light, 

Dear Student,

Who taught you that learning
                                was a checklist and not listening to the wind
Where did you learn that reading
                                only counted if there was a multiple-choice quiz and a prize
What made you believe that dogs
                                can’t be blue or fly or tell silly jokes
When did you stop asking questions
                                about the color of sound and the taste of memory

Dear Teacher,

Why have we allowed school to become so dried
                                shrunken like a core that forgot it was once a glossy juicy apple
How have we let those without the magic
                                dim the lights so none can see

mimosas are highly invasive: rapid growers, they can release a thousand seeds annually which last up to ten years. Seems like desirable qualities along with lacy, delicate leaves, fragrant pink powder-puff blooms bees, butterflies, and hummingbirds pursue May through July, but, imported from Asia, the trees have few predators and threaten native plants. Mimosas feel like part of my history. My dear Aunt Marilyn had several gorgeous mimosas in her back yard. We marveled at their beauty as we traveled south on summer vacations as a child. Dad took a moving picture of one blowing in the wind, a snake nestled on a branch. At a farmers market, my second  husband and I were happy to buy two mimosa saplings. We’d moved into a new condo on Mimosa Trail. Neither tree lasted, and the following Fall, lung cancer killed Richard. I’m always happy to see mimosas on the country road leading to Red River Gorge, one of our favorite places. Every year, I look forward to visiting the mimosa grove in the arboretum five miles from my home. 

What some find lovely
proves hazardous to others,
tipping the balance.  

notebook paper folded in fours

to fit neatly (enough)

into pockets. writing on the “wrong”

side to avoid the rings.

a prayer every night for the lost and the needy.

feeling freer than you were.

before marriage/tattoos/mental health diagnoses.

embouchures and hope/apathy/lack of foresight.

time to get back in the game, baby.

think back to

I picked out a cozy tie-dye sundress,
anticipating a fun summer day.

I got to the shower
and shaved my legs,
praying my toddler doesn’t stuff my dress
in the toilet
or into the shower with me.

She shouts with glee
in a gibberish only I translate.

It’s midday.
I ask the baby,
Do you want to go outside to play?

We trudge to the garden,
awaiting fresh vegetables and herbs.

With a baby on my hip,
I dip and pick
a bud of lavender.

In that moment,
I realize
I’ve never had a home
where I could plant flowers
directly into the dirt.

I hold the bud to my nose,
and the scent makes my heart hurt.

I gently pull the babe in for a squeeze
and gift her the lavender
that spoke to me.

“Look! The wages you failed to pay the workers who mowed your fields are crying out against you. The cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord Almighty.” – James 5:4

I’d like to confess a crime

I have a body, and my body needs food to survive, and to survive I must work, but to work I must survive, and so I am at work and I am hungry and I cannot leave and there is food in the fridge here anyway, so I take it and eat it and my body survives so that my body can work and keep surviving. 

But there was a sign on the food in the fridge that said Do Not Take. It did not say This Is Amy’s or Saving For Later. Cold cuts from an already over meeting that could’ve been an email, sweaty and wilted cheddar next to slimy sliced ham. I took two slices of each, for a classic Ham & Cheese on Hand sandwich.

You caught me satisfying a biological necessity in a body I did not consent to control so that I could keep working while following as many of your rules as I could and now I have a professional improvement plan. Now I am a thief, only because we start from Thou Shall Not Steal and work backwards, building a world around rules, instead of rules around the world. If instead we start from the hunger          

                                              
If we decide to start from the hunger, how can anyone be called thief?

I sing a song of solidarity

for those murdered in the streets.

For those taken from their homes,

Imprisoned and sent far away

A song of forgiveness for those

who have become avengers

with souls blackened by anger.

I sing of love for those

who have lost their way

and those who are finding it in

the kindness of their neighbors.

A powerful song calling for

hope and beauty to rise out of those

terrorized and blood-soaked lives,

for those who deserve better

for we are all one.

There is a plow coming through,
approaching faster than yesterday
a fire hose ignited by a Ring Master
threatens my slow moving finger tips

In his other hand is held a bright whip,
or is it just the sun rising on this new day
calling attention to the center ring
where artifacts are assembled

I remember when all of these arrived
with laughter, satisfaction, gratitude, love
now deciding what must go feels so permanent
severing through lines, stories ending

Now this theatre begins—a party of one
no anesthesia, tears are expected,
apathy encouraged, imaginary friends
are of no use—your inner dialogue got us here

Remember, this is just a problem to solve
the proxemics of space—like solving how to fit
a house into a thimble…So seize this day
Let’s start with the box of VCR tapes

Trying to keep the weed just a weed.
Don’t let me metaphor it to death though
the way they scourge my yard, they do suggest
a life out of control, or Attila demanding entry to Rome.
Well, no, he’s already here.

Now stop. The weeds are just evidence of sloth;
you don’t need grand similes for that.
They’re just damn weeds, not evidence
of moral decay or if so only the venial sin variety.
Say three Hail Mary’s and keep pulling.  

Even better while you’re kneeling on the
new kneepads your wife has kindly gotten you, imagine
the Dionysian vigor that propels the weeds onward, upward.
Make a small clearing—evidence of some progress at least.
Say a prayer to some nature god along with Mary.

Your poor statue of Saint Francis is almost
covered with weeds.
He could use a prayer while you’re at it.

Uncover him, and don’t let the metaphors choke.    

I wake to blood in my nose.
The sunlight pours an ill will
and everyone’s anger simmers,
directed by instinct, at the person
who will feel guilty regardless. You
sentence me to your silent resentment.
Serving time with no end date, I push
into elsewhere, brute force, in pain, 
to become briefly brainless. Quadruple 
my dose to flip days into nights, fortify 
this semblance of distance. In the dark
I raise a hunger that gnaws off the guilt, 
leaves my skeleton hunched in the closet.
Crucified right where it should be, 
right where everyone likes me.