7th
coffee from a sippy cup
cigarettes with wide-wing bird drawn just above the filter
books of poetry about spring bloom and ocean roll
serving my inner child strangely,
but she hasn’t protested so far
Standing at the edge of ocean and sand
The heft of this world fades into the
Peace of feeling small.
I am split open by the single-mindedness of the sea.
Waves approach and retreat,
Filling and emptying as
The moon commands.
How do I put my life in its wake
To accept gravity,
To breathe in and breathe out,
To take comfort in the moon?
You said breaking up is harder
for the one
who does the dumping
but you only saw
the part you cared to.
Plus of course
you said that
narcissist.
You got on an airplane
didn’t have to watch
little miss sunshine
disappear
into an abyss
of cynicism
and vices.
You didn’t see
my nails bleed
or my ribs poke through my flesh
or my lips crack.
I’m sorry
you had doubts.
But even agonizing doubts
could never compare
to what I was left with
certainty.
He climbs into my lap
with 10-year-old gangly limbs,
more elbows and knees than muscles.
His head upon my bosom,
I inhale the sun-stained dirt of his afternoon play.
He lifts and wraps his thin arms around my neck –
the sour punch of soccer sullied sweat
grasps my attention.
“We need to buy you deodorant.
Your body is growing, changing.”
He nestles tighter and declares,
“I don’t want to wear deodorant.
I don’t want to grow up.”
With my cheek upon his head,
I pull him closer…
knowing too soon
his avowal and embrace will give way.
Tail of root back of moss
ears of fern legs of trunk
eyes like edges of moon—
narrowed and unreadable
and sheer in their blackness
all above his body
this chest of tor
jagged with rock
thick with mud
deep with shadow.
In the valley of his stomach
hunger crows and marches
in the dead night
toward the small and the quick
with eyes as opaque
as his own.
Anytime someone
Does something
I think only I do
I always think
They’re making fun of me.
Which I would welcome
If they’d let me in on the joke.
When you play Glenn Gould
Are you thinking,
“I bet that weird girl
Loves Glenn Gould “
Or not ?
I need to know, kind of.
There’s so few true coincidences.
When I hear his stuff
I always think
Of my old school
Or just schools, mostly.
I would need a past life regression
To know why.
I would need to believe in past lives.
I would need to believe in past life regression.
So, when you play certain stuff
Are you making fun of me or not ?
(None of this may not be true) (forgotten twice)
I know a terrorist
I sat in my house secretly
thinking uncharitable thoughts
Certain in my mind due to observation, gossip
and short, unwanted meetings
That the person who nobody thought was a terrorist
Was one
And I thought I could be a weirdo nutcase
Intolerant, pompous, paranoid
As I unobtrusively looked into
the trashcans outside the school every day
Knowing the terrorist had walked by
But I kept quiet
because I didn’t want anyone to know
my strange mind
Until the arrest for terrorism was made
I was so relieved, so thankful
I wanted to yell at everyone:
“See, I knew, why didn’t you?”
But I didn’t
Because I’m sitting in my house secretly
Thinking uncharitable thoughts
Not wanting anyone to know
my strange mind
(please respond)
The thing to remember about cooking with grandma is that
Nothing is exact
No measuring cups or spoons
Just dollops, scoops, and pinches
Everything is by touch and taste
Until it is right
First divide the sausage
Six to a pound if you are feeding the family
Twelve for a party
Already I’m cheating because I use premixed sausage from the store
Roll each portion into an oblong
Ignore the fat coating your skin seeping into your pores
As sage tickles your nose
The microwave a betrayal
Of grandma frying on the stovetop
Turning rows of sausages quickly with a wooden spoon
Serving as punctuation to her story
Or meting out punishment
Pat the sausages dry
Then wrap into tidy dough packages
At least my dough is made from scratch
And tuck into a greased pan
Leaving room to expand
Baking leaves just time for a cup at the kitchen table
And a story about grandpa
Polish each brown-tinted package with butter
Serve with applesauce on the side
Watch that first bite
Or you will burn your mouth
Biting into memory
The thing to remember about cooking with grandma is that
Nothing is exact
No measuring cups or spoons
Just dollops, scoops, and pinches
Everything is by touch and taste
Until it is right
