tanka 6
alone in the night
intimate with my laptop
scrolling through
haiku I wrote long ago
my own neon mind flashing
I throw you up.
Your words taste like metal,
in my mouth.
You were too small minded,
and it made me ill as fuck.
Everything bad that has been said
or has been done
I throw it up
everyday-
hoping-
that someone’s words will finally make me
not vomit.
One day, I am thinking
of a color. It is June.
The summer strawberries
run violet on the vine,
damselflies lose appetite
for insects, craving lily
pad waxen blooms instead.
Hummingbirds hover
expectantly over wild
onion and bees seek
nectar from rainbows
after thunderstorms
leave splash-puddles
on concrete sidewalks
between cracks
green moss grows
sprouting orange
flowers only because
I wanted to use orange
in a poem, too, Frank.
Tie a non- fiction book
to the end of your line
of sight and cast
yourself upon the sofa.
Keep still as you read
and when your head
starts bobbing you know
sleep is taking the bait.
Everyone else in the cabin is still sleeping
I sit in the quiet with my coffee
sunrise over the mountain
birds singing their morning melodies
white clouds like fresh cotton candy
gently running stream inviting me
maybe I’ll just dip my toes in the water
a time to thank God for his bountiful blessings
Make sure to look it up.
Once you have read
all the countless articles
on Buzzfeed, shove them
straight up your ass–where
all the other instruction manuals
needed to love someone
should go.
I wore a path between our houses
through the tobacco field
where our parents were.
Parts of your family were gone
Your Dad was gone,
I never asked where,
In his place were brothers,
with guns and radios.
And a Sister
who died in the upstairs room
from leukemia,
though I never heard you say the word.
Your House was big,
bigger than ours,
and cold.
The lights were cut off
At night your brothers
pissed in a lard bucket
in the kitchen.
If there was a bathroom
I didn’t see it.
Some of the rooms
were blocked off with old quilts
You had purses with cigarettes
and lipstick.
Sometimes you hung tobacco, too.
Your brothers were always walking
to town, starting in the morning
and coming back at night.
When you fought with
your boyfriends
they worried the gravel road
for hours.
“Here Comes Jodie May, Out walking”
If Papaw caught you on the road
he would recruit you for church.
Sometimes you came to our house
asking for cold cuts or a pop.
Sometimes you bathed there.
Sometimes Mom checked
you for nits.
Sometimes you walked
a mason jar of Kerosene home
to treat your heads.
Sometimes you came back more than once.
It wasn’t until years later,
After I was grown with kids
I realized that we weren’t blood kin,
that Your Mom died
of an aneurysm
walking that path.
When edges of ferns
Turn brown;
Summer!
When bug guts
Stick to windshield;
Sunshine!
When everyone weeps
At the same time;
Safety!
When image of louse
Appears on toast;
Great Calm!
When you are mean
And I am hurt about it;
Time for a Trip!
You hook me in murky water,
your line slicing ripples
to get to me,
pulling sinker, sinking quickly
in shallow, soft silt,
barbed intrigue
propelling,
compelling,
my muffled sounds escaping,
almost inaudible, small whispering,
cold-etched-bones
quivering to be spared, yet
yearning to be spread
like thorned sunlight
on cinnamon crackers.
You get me, you know;
hook, line,
and catfish meow.
