Aging
This morning,
as I make up our bed,
I notice
your side of the bed-sheet
has grown old,
in small wrinkles.
Zlatna Kostova
It is held in the grasp of one hand
Work your grip up to squeeze in the bottom third of the sack
turn the pouch upside down so when you open it
it’s top-down so the lettering appears face-up
now with your opposite hand
Gently push the puffed out region of the airbag-like state
And prepare yourself, wait for it…
BOOM! This should’ve aroused no fear
Wafting in the flavor of potato, onion, cheddar, ranch, pepper, vinegar, spicy, bacon, ‘rito or baked,
depends on the opener’s taste.
Her secretive scheme gave space to meet him
down by the old oak tree planted by the waters on east 92
married at 14
certain she knew the way
Mrs. Can-Do wandered alone
with her sprouts from country to city
to county lane and back again
Planned moves by the blink of his eye
with no notice for her to bat an eyelid
She traveled onward, barefoot,
on gravels and in snow to and fro
Pointed her compass north
without seeing journey’s end
Love blinders, disappointment,
poverty, hardship, soul-grinding halts
busied her at stop after stop
year after year
Late on her way, Thunderbolt Chief Doublehead seized
her Cherokee name,
“Knows the Way”
in lit spaces between ceremonial flames
To outsiders, her destination
after so many moves— a mystery
but she
“Knows the Way”
made it there
A real-life her-story
inscribed in her bones
returned to blessed assurance—
no secrets, no schemes, just a meeting
down by the tree of life planted by the waters
because she “Knows the Way”
I read my journal entries from last summer.
Call it reminiscing
or self-inflicted torture,
but I forgot how we started.
I only remembered why we ceased.
In the beginning were self-issued warnings,
“Don’t succumb to the flirtation.”
“Don’t destroy your friendship.”
“Don’t drown yourself in him.”
logged alongside the counter arguments,
“With him it could be so easy. He gets me.”
Although we never crossed that boundary
to which friends cannot return once they become lovers,
we blurred a million demarcations
and lost our way while navigating murky depths.
I re-read our conversations and hear your voice
testing the waters and my limits,
“I want you.”
“I need you to be the strong one and resist.”
“I’m not sure if I can leave you alone.”
“I don’t care if everyone finds out.”
But when you said,
“I’m afraid of having to tell my kids
that I don’t love their mom anymore”
I cried, “Avast!”
I could not cast off.
I close my journal,
harbored as you sail on –
wondering if she’ll know the storm you weathered
wondering if you’ll face another tempest
wondering if you’ll ever return to mooring.
Salt on the edges of its leaves.
Miles of purple swaying
With the tips of the ocean’s breeze
The scent mesmorizes visitors
It is the secret of those
Born to it.
Beware of its power
So subtle yet
It can bring the heart of stone
To its boney knees.
Lick your lips now
Do you taste salt?
A woman enters the woods
listening for answers
to life’s razors, waiting
for the noose to loosen
beauty to filter through
she comes to a spring
thickened by rain
near a tree trunk wrapped
with a circle of moss
Leans to imprint
its layers of tenderness
in her throat
a quiver hatches
a harmonic tilt
swims through her
a murmer of vowels
she mouths
~ Found poem composed/modified from words in the poem “The Voice is the Last We Forger to Remember” by Lee Sharkey
