Summer Haiku
Fireflies of summer
Captured in old Mason jars
Light my memories
grabbing my hair
feels like
grabbing my heart.
you tried
to break
my spirit-
but, boy,
do my bones hurt.
in the end,
it’s about
what’s in
the rear view mirror.
The lie I told my pre-homeowning self:
“I am above the American obsession
with lawncare. I will nurture the weeds,
let nature have the freedom
to decide its own landscape.”
I was young, progressive, thought
I was different
than this curating culture
until today,
when I—consciously!—pledged allegiance
to the HOA:
For beautiful for phallic blooms
Of hostas and blue sage
I pitchforked black nightshade,
red nettle
like it was in my blood,
mulched them over
as if I had no idea
their strength,
their adaptation to fight
the weedcloth to fight
me, weedcloth layer,
year after year
for this fresh
garden water.
Inside out is my favorite movie.
All personified emotions scattering in a brain.
We all have become someone
other than ourselves before.
A man at a bar grabbed my chest.
I looked him dead in the eyes and said,
“I will fucking kill you.”
I am never one to fight.
Not even one to flight.
Always freezing, choking, scrambling.
I thought to myself,
“Who is that?”
In reference to him.
Surely he has been hijacked.
Body snatched.
And who am I to respond in such a way?
I’ve gotten into the habit of asking.
Only way to know how much of me
is someone else’s expectations.
Sometimes my flight of thought
is hijacked by a scared five year old,
a 13 year old boy hitting puberty TOO hard.
The worst, a million crows
flying way to close to my propellers.
I can always borrow bravery
from the ones in my head.
Creativity, adventure, hope;
lent out like DIY library books
to study and return.
Who is the one so desperate to learn?
Is it me?
Or all of us,
trying to combat the unpredictability
of this existence.
My brain map resembles an office.
Depending on the day, the receptionist
is different.
Some Monday’s she doesn’t want to be there.
Switches out with a man
who is more than willing to be dominant.
Everyone trying to get through the day.
Constantly clocking in and out.
Taking breaks.
Some desk mates enjoy their companions
while others are sorted to work in the back room.
Analysis is a room monitor,
supervising everyone’s progression and activity.
Making sure nobody goes into overtime.
We don’t want to pay for overtime.
And still, who is this?
Writing this poem and
opening the office
for public viewing.
Surely not me.
I blamed by mom
Who is gullible
And the sales guy
Who told my mom
A story to make a sale
But I know it’s my fault
I could have just flipped
The damned thing over
Like Jimi did
Instead of sucking for 30 years
Through winter’s monochrome burn
hibernal holding-in.
Through seasons of flowering magnolias
voluptuous orchards of summer.
Through October’s leaves that blow copper snow
friendship is the only love.
The rest is a biological concert
pheromone bells tolling in the dark.
where our state-lines entwine
your kiss is wet and dark enough
to grow mushrooms. your breath
is chanterelles on my face
pinked by summer.
before i tasted you, i didnt know
i was hungry as these moths the
knapweed entertains.
gnatcatchers on the jag move like
your fingers when you open up about
your past. their plumage seems bluer,
and more radiant with my pulse up
like it is, and all the little drips
from downy leaves.
