It was a sweltering summer day
As tractor rumbled away
Cutting the golden hay
Mr. Jolly smiled and waved
Parked and stayed
Sharing his spare cola
I sat on his old John Deere
With about 60 years between us
Bonding over cheap bologna and diet rite soda
Simple kindness
To a child
Lasts forever.
It all started with apple, of course,
she said when interviewed.
I like the Adam’s Pearmain variety myself—
it’s really a sin to use anything else—
add a cloudlike crust to the mix
and you’ve got just a heavenly creation.
The best dessert when serving something
heavy, like ribs, she claimed, slipping
the winning check into her snakeskin bag.
Paradise on a fork, cried one judge.
One smart tart, exclaimed another.
Her secret ingredient: How just a hint
of fig can make all the difference.
1. I can’t shut my eyes for longer than thirty seconds without seeing all my mistakes on repeat in a theatrical setting
2. I can hear her voice like a song telling me every wrong step that I will take
3. When I look into your eyes, I hear the metronome sound of calmness and clarity
4. But when I look into your eyes, I see all the pain, potentially.
5. I can’t decide if I crave eternal isolation or community
6. Is this earth even right for me?
And the next time that I break, will I crave it or seek therapy?
Is anyone listening?
I’m formed with egg shell, a smirk drawn on
When you look me in the eyes, you see joy and exaggerated injury
But be careful, I may not be crying wolf.
You see, not a single soul can see my pain, I wouldn’t expect them to.
I am the sweet girl with that smile that screams “mental stability”
So if she looks at me with a straight face and says she tried to die, it’s stagy
But when the shell begins to crack, please don’t act like I didn’t tell you previously
And when I come back, don’t patronize me
arms poked and prodded until a vein relents
and blood runs freely into the vial,
urine caught and analyzed under microscopes
for a lifetime of dietary mistakes,
stool scraped and scrutinized
to see what afficts me,
and life —
so much life
wasted in waiting rooms —
then I finally understand Bronte’s concession,
“There’s little joy in life for me,
And little terror in the grave.”
I’ve delighted in those bellyache compulsions,
Sinful and engorged.
The great disobedient,
Pirouette in empty hall,
Collapsing.
I’m a birthdaycake disaster, all filthy polkadots amongst circus clouds.
I’ve been cat-caught and tongueless before her.
I’ve cakewalked through free given graces,
And at times Ive emerged atrophied and threadbare;
Declarations of intent fall short to little arsonist.
This vile and burdensome decomposition must nourish new growth.
Blooming better devils.
I must be a one horned half witch forever,
But may morning-glories emerge, as my mother asked.
Each line is written only with letters in the title.
Trade on
nothin’
for this:
as family, I
am the first to
hear if its
real,
it they
are
honest –
and they
are (mostly).
At least, my
family is.
Refreshing as a Mojito
salty as chicken soup
she paws, and pauses, and pulls away
the sand where I stand
leaving memory of her absence
tickling the tops of my feet
with dreadful longing for her return.
