The flowers have bloomed
My breathing steadies
My toes are burrowing into the ground like roots
The sun is caressing my skin
And my arms outstretch, my fingers waving in the wind like leaves
Is this photosynthesis or just the passing of seasonal depression?
I will work hard to water my own soil on at least a weekly basis
And when the frost comes, uproot or cover me
And help me pray that I can make it through the winter
Half a vicious year, this crocodile cycle, I’m all teeth today.
i.
I woke up in that room again,
In a house built entirely of ash;
Crumbling like a cigarette sandcastle.
It gives way like sugar to water, and I with it.
ii.
I woke up in that flowerbed again,
In a country of gardens.
Blooming like Babylon in the spring.
I trade sugarwater for bumblebee blessings,
And think honeythoughts about Irises and rose tint.
The morning sun served salad.
Poked around the warren
found strawberry, dandelion,
buckthorn, acorn, cowslip.
Blackberry not ready yet.
They ripen slowly, if not stolen.
The dirt that collects in the corners of the woodwork–
there must be a word for it,
whether we know it or not.
Just like this emotion
I am feeling now–
there must be a word for it, whether I know it or not.
One
where we are determines who we are, how we treat the world and it us. Adaptable as we are — that’s the key — we are still the adapting parties, timing what we do to seasons, hours, dark and light. If the world changes, it isn’t adaptation but forced response. In the end, it might be forced to kill us on a larger scale than usual.
Two
outside, even at its bitterest, angriest, most dangerous, is less frightening than the storms that live inside this collection of rooms we once called home: the monsoons of angry words, the burning sands of desiccating looks. Days of becalmed silences alternate with cold fronts coming from your back when you turn away at night.
There should be a word
for the exact spot on a cat’s nose
where fur makes a decision and
changes direction.
like the pyramids, robbed by their own building crew
or the bluewhite moon against dark city streets,
against bodies. To be alone or to be loved?
Waiting, the usual wants:
of care, of your touch, or that certain dense smile.
I made myself late. You,
you hardened my heart. Think pizza crusts
instead of gold jewels, mummified
victual pets. Each artifact
a represented prayer.
The air conditioning, the darkcold room,
the boxes of delivery food
crowd around: a modern-age sandstone tomb.
The smell, incense: fresh pains,
our quiet gaps. You build. You bow.
My daughter was born with
her umbilical cord attached
to a coconut from Kapoho.
Pulsating tendrils
once a part of me,
now intertwined with
the seed of life,
fibers dissolving into Mama Ka`u,
a fine mat woven,
a communion of dna,
braided heart beat, tree roots, and soil,
a triad of
holy mystery.
I
I told myself that I sought the sound of solitude
But now I know loneliness is something you never lose
It’s more like a matter of time
A cliff I know I’ll have to climb
With calloused hands and bruised feet
With all the saltwater stinging my eyes.
It’s truly the only assured thing in life
II
Loneliness is both
The unstoppable force
And immovable object
And when things like that meet it causes eruptions.
It will burn.
III
I thought that if loneliness was just a figment of my imagination
I could imagine myself whole
But even on the beaches of my mind there are riptides
that cling to your hands and feet
and tug you under.
There is quicksand
And it only gets worse if you fight it.
IV
I like to think that I am the one who summons this feeling
But the truth is that loneliness calls to me with its siren song
high above the jagged rocks.
Wears a mask of guilt
Dresses itself in war
It is a weapon that only works when I turn it around
And haven’t I hurt myself enough?
V
Loneliness is a self prescribed medicine
It’s my mental opioid
It’s a drug I tend to abuse
Stimulates all my nerves
Until there’s no electricity left in me.
Nothing shocks me anymore.
VI
If I’m lucky,
This sand will bear fruit
Let it ripen
And remind me I am alive
But it never keeps long enough to for it to stay that way
And maybe I like to forget.
Maybe I like to forget that this sea of my psyche
has no other ships to save me
It means that here there are no other victims.
I am sure the ocean is the most dangerous place for beauty
Where so many things can hurt you
Where you can hurt so many things
It’s easier to think that you’re alone.
VII
I’ve been swimming these waters for long enough that I can tell you that
These waters are vast enough to hide your neighbours from you
But you’ll be surprised who will wash up on your shores.
It’s just a chair–flops back, legs wobble
Kinda cracking along the seams
Used to be white, now creamy to tan.
At the summer place, don’t threaten
The White Chair, don’t make plans
To replace that one thing, don’t move it
From its place there on the lanai,
Even if it doesn’t fit the décor. It’s vacation
What heck with decorating frou frou?
That chair will put one to sleep regardless
Of the hour, the day, the heartbreak,
The punishment, the weather or worry.
Some things need to stand alone
Be left alone waiting for the next
Weary soul who needs well worn
Trusted, proven comfort. We all cherish
The White Chair, and woe to the one who
Dares to say she won’t always be there.
Ah, but who is to say a chair actually offers
Sleep denied elsewhere? Could it be more
A figment of our own needed respite?
Leave me alone, and leave my chair alone.
The irrational doesn’t need explanations
And parsing, they just are and that is enough.
