I see your yard, perfect and green
Front yard Utopia, not an ugly weed in sight
Plant genocide to the dandelion, clover, and broadleaf
Where you pick and choose what belongs and what doesn’t
Only able to see beauty in the conformity of grass
I have no food to speak of
Not that I speak of food
But I kinda wanted breakfast
Hunger affects my mood
Pickle jar is empty
Yogurt grew fuzz
Bread went stale
That’s what it does
Left over soup
From who knows when
Dried up old onion
From a drawer called ‘Bin’
Milk went sour
Sardines shriveled up
Empty half lemon
And a dirty coffee cup.
I think it’s time to shop for food
All that can be bought
So next time I’ll have things to eat
And not old food for thought.
Light breaks on the crease of the horizen
and your eyes soften the glare that wakes me–
gently rolling over from the life we live
S E P A R A T E L Y
The warmth of the sun mimicks
your touch — welcoming it, I soak it in
As the moonlight creates shadows behind my eyes
S O F T L Y
You graze my hand—fleeting, the sheets fall–
a sweet fragrance reminds me of the reality of your absence
when I fully wake
S U S P E N D E D
Between dreams and reality
I create a makeshift shelter to hide
Childlike, make-believe moments to keep you alive
S O M E W H E R E
Your soul prepares to rest —
the sun sets, and the stars welcome the night
S W E E T L Y
back to my memories and dreams–
we sleep.
The scullery maid scrubs the stoop.
The cop on the beat twirls his stick.
The rich are safe and the future smells
like an oven of blueberry muffins.
A little bird sings that a rising tide
lifts all boats and the poor believe
that someday, they, too, will have
a boat.
Clare’s mother mixes aloe vera and something else she can’t remember
refrigerates it in a plastic spray bottle
it feels so good on a summer California sunburn
There’s an aloe plant in the kitchen
which no one has watered since anyone can remember
it lives surrounded by lemons and interesting pieces of ground
To fill a house with your own art
done in the medium of women beautiful and kind
they come in threes, board games, and dresses from the children’s section
After hatching, a baby marine iguana
emerges from the sand alone.
Others have died in the embrace of waiting racer snakes
their spines and skulls lay exposed to the sun
after the snakes have moved on.
The marine iguana is born into a world of peril.
Exposure to childhood adversity has a negative effect on brain development.
Its dinosaur eyes cannot see the shore
but something drives the lizard out and
carefully he makes his way over the rocky sand.
But the snakes are waiting, their heads raised at attention
countless numbers of them—the stuff nightmares are made of—
and then they strike.
In some Kentucky schools, 90% of the student population lives in poverty.
The iguana runs as fast as it can
its long, clawed fingers flying over the sand.
But the racer snakes are fast and there are so many.
They strike. Three of them coil the long muscles of their bodies around him.
He struggles, but they are so strong.
The iguana moves a fraction of an inch as the snakes start to squeeze.
Some educators have acknowledged an increasing need for training in trauma-informed care.
Miraculously, he slides from their grip
and takes off toward the sea as they lay in a knot.
But still there are more and they strike
one after another after another
as the iguana scrambles up boulders.
They lunge at him, but their bodies fall heavy on the rocks below.
It is possible to reverse the damaging effects of chronic stress in children.
Finally he makes it to the sea where adult iguanas lay in the sun as the surf sprays them with saltwater.
He is one of the few that survive.
Baptism isn’t a journey;
it’s a gateway
between journeys.
And it’s not just mine
but a whole city’s.
New friendships
become new life.
I am not God
but I do hold
a multitude of blessings,
time and ability
that I’m willing to share.
You know this.
I showed you
when the city died
by immersion
of all day rain.
I carried you through it
and hopefully
gave you something
to maybe believe in
should you find
your current faith
doesn’t make you happy.
Driving to see your mother in the hospital, you realize you are one thousand years old.
You learn to count the number of doorways you’ll pass through, and elevator buttons you’ll touch.
Hand washing has not had the same degree of consciousness and care since grade school when the habit was being drilled into you.
Everyone acts with paper doll movements. Gentle untucking, redressing, patting into place. The washing of arms, legs, feet, heads, backs. This is your back. These are your shoulders. Your own body looking back at you in reverse.
Time is funny here. Precious, laborious, terrifying. And you don’t know where she is.
She could be anywhere, in a scan, left down the hall, under the stairs, on another floor, behind the moon.
She could be on her stomach while the carpenter and the electrician do their work under theater lights.
What a strange, sterilized opera. She did an ugly pirouette into another plane, some offshoot reality, but somehow is also still stuck in bed.
So she should be here. You are here. Right here?
Right here.
Right.
Right.
this is not a poem
it is a stream of words
from someone once told
“you’ll make a name for yourself”
the fortune cookie didn’t know
it would be taped to a screen
facing the team of one
strained and broken girl
whose moon says
balance, business, love
but sun says
impulse, strength, fight
i am an exhausted
solar eclipse, leaving
crescent shaped shadows
in my path
