unbridled
nature’s surrender
of this vista; wings adorn
unbridled blue sky
1. A nearly unbroken series of small mistakes
interrupted only by the occasional Large One
and mitigated by constant infusions of Grace.
2. A grown man earnestly attempting
to fold a fitted sheet all by himself.
3. An oddly-configured train that took forever
to even pull out of the station but has since
doubled its speed each decade and will soon
leave the tracks far behind and far below it.
Bubbles, poured
much too lavishly, have been
whipped up and up and up
by the insistent jets of the jacuzzi,
burying her
inside soft billowing fluffs
of fragrant foam. She scoops out
her face, giggling, giddy. She’s
made up her mind.
White lace curtains filter
light, stencil flowers on the wall
above her bubble bath.
She traces their patterns
with her big toe until
shapes blur.
So sleepy. She just wants
to close her eyes and drift off
before these beautiful white clouds
get stained red.
Grief taught me many things
like how to pass time with just thinking.
I am learning new ways to be, now.
Partially because I want to and also
because I am tired of people asking me
“it has been a little over a year,
hasn’t it?”
(In a tone that has little concern
for the passage of time.)
I let the words rattle around behind
my eye lids, stare at the puzzle pieces
scattered on my kitchen table. A new hobby
I have taken up to make myself interesting, again.
roll
we gentrify the block,
bring wedding planners
and poetry readings
to the north lime
prostitutes. pimp &
police officer alike
can get eyebrows arched
for the cost of a decent
car payment / the joint,
as they say, jumpin’…
bounce
meanwhile, but much later,
the mayor of eddie street
asks how much of
an avocado toast
he can get for a buck,
“less than a buck’s worth.”
so he settles on a cup
of ice and drops a dime
into the tip jar / goodwill,
for what it is and all…
rock
ever see a white family’s
collective eyes bulge
out of face when entering
a gentrified space
full of black people?
the shelves closest them
in the bookstore
become a no-fly zone;
“can i get a brownie
and a small force field
with my flat white?”
– hipsters on safari.
skate
even the transient cling
to privilege when the coffeeshop
is black-owned (a metaphor
for whose lives really matter);
i guess it’s a form
of ‘public service’
we provide, granting
the homeless a fleeting flash
of dignity / looking down
on the dark skin in remberence
to The Greatness of Ol’ Glory,
all for the tiny cost
of a plastic cup of water;
a small price to pay, i suppose,
in the “grander scheme”…
She awakes with good intentions
But it all goes to hell
When she actually brings in the mail
Without hiding it
When she sees her sister smoke
At college
It is her fault
The dad sees her sister’s grades
The mom is furious
That she
Didn’t tell about the sister smoking.
Of course there was never
Never
Any mention about what
her actions should have been
Regarding either situation.
For a month she is in a house
With no talking in her direction
No conversation of any kind
She holds her breath
Until at school
Spends the weekends
Seeking new ways of being
Invisible with her
Truthfulness.
“The past is gone but something might be found/To take its place” – Hey Jealousy, Gin Blossoms
Thirty-four looks out at a cavernous darkness, exhilarating and
no better word than strange. He assented.
You can say that again. Suddenly it’s as if
you’re seeing everything for the first time.
That Gin Blossoms song comes on the radio for the 892nd time, but now
you’ve been 29 and in no shape for driving
and asking to just crash here tonight knowing you didn’t mean a couch
because it wasn’t a metaphor but actually the closest to asking for love
you could manage.
You could never imagine yourself so
broken and
cowardly when it played in all those films
when you were twelve.
And some things feel so big and looming and
unavoidable, like
that you could no longer simply imagine yourself historical, what would I
have done in 1106, 1492, 1873,
1927, 1969? It had always still been
the flatness of being in the moment but
at 34 shit there it was suddenly, flat and
up against your skin,
beaconing, saying,
this is what fate
actually means. What you did in 2010. What you will do
in 2017. It must be digging your feet
into the mud of things,
naming them, clutching them, gnawing them, ferociously eating them
down to the bones, breaking the bones, sucking out the marrow, licking your lips
and looking out disgusting and
calm at the
dinner table full of hungry nibblers
desperate, quietly fumbling
at the edge of a sliver of sustenance
dangling on tiny golden cocktail forks. You
know yourself a subject, defiant —
satisfied
in the ugliness of your hunger.
No more time
for pretending you do not break open the bones
and suck out the marrow. You realize
that babies just drop in and hope for the best. You realize
that mothers begin to die and
can only pray that they have raised
children who love them. You realize
that if you see that it needs to be done
then it’s your purpose to find a way
to do it. That is what God
means. That is the recipe
of the history of anything worthy. You cannot
take back knowing; it is
not a world for children,
for some fearful reckoning of time. He listens, so quiet —
tired, but he always listens if she needs it.
I must do this work and
I am scared. It’s bigger than I am
and it will eat me up.
But I know the kind death I want.
I just needed to say that to someone.
I just needed to say that to you.
I don’t know why. I’m sorry.
Thirty-four is just something else.
He sighs a little, a grin
tugging at the edges of it, coming over the
phone like a photograph. Yeah, he says,
it’s okay. I’m still 33, but
I know what you mean.
Wild Country cologne hangs in the air as
I travel down the hallway from my bedroom
to the bathroom where the curling iron needs
to be plugged in and turned on in order to get
proper curl for my 80’s hairdo—it only takes an
hour to achieve. Pausing for a brief second at the
top of the stairs, I see Dad sitting in the living
room’s catty-cornered, burnt orange naugahyde
rocker recliner with the King James version
opened onto his lap just like any other early
Sunday morning since I can remember.
While I prepare hair and makeup for my crush at
church, he prepares his heart and mind for church.
Thirty years later, I plug my curling iron into the
wall socket and connect my heart to his.
On the printed page,
color bleeds through black.
100% blacK isn’t black enough.
To make rich black,
you have to add other colors,
each a percent higher than the highest percentage.
This confounds and confronts my students;
first lesson in color.
