too well, i know the second life of a dismemberd tree limb, as the many tiny propagating legs of insects make the beds of their new home.
in the light of day my nordic ice shard eyes, fear the demise of extended sun rise gaze.
as my cares are falling out of my pillow rested ear, all of my bones were replaced with pool noodles.
the air is thicker.
i long to return to that place i’ve never been.
We traveled out the country road
Of a crisp summer night
You took me to the place you called home
To sit in comfortable silence with your mom
You led me, hand in hand to a casual front lawn goodbye —friends —our favorite line
But that night, the moon drenched our young skin, taut and electrified—
We stepped from the small town life
Into the big screen
Taking my hand as I walked away
You pulled me in — rescued me from another night of what ifs and why nots
You, transformed by the moon, were brave—
The leading actor
The kiss — blockbuster, emotion-lighting—
Made the hot summer night blush,
S H I V E R —-down my spine
Your hand up my neck and through my hair
I was the girl everyone wanted to be —
Loved, passionately
Soul mate meets best friend meets passion
And then we opened our eyes
Stunned, speechless
Abruptly separated— goodnight
You were my first love-
Passion
Heartache
Long lost Friend
I look up and wait for that same moon
To return
To drench me with its magical dew
To kiss away the heartache of
Missing you.
In the North,
in all that clean whiteness,
the wind sings and shrieks and sighs
and in it
I hear your name
burdened with the longing
I’ve heard in my own voice
a thousand times.
I know that in the coming weeks
I will stare at the stars
in a way that makes me feel
the vastness of everything, and
I will miss the way your body makes me
feel at home hurtling
through the universe, nestled
as we are
in our obscure corner
of the Milky Way. The way
that you press your back into mine or
slide the flats of your feet along my leg while we sleep is
to the feeling of god touching me
under the darkest of night skies
as
the earth is
to a surge
through charged wires.
What am I to do
if you decide to take yourself from me?
How can I handle knowing
these giant, impossible things
without your care
to ground me?
It’s your turn now
to wear the blanket of thorns,
though I will admit
I didn’t think it would be so soon.
The pain is intense, I know
from all the times I’ve had to endure it,
thorns surging through flesh, spearing your heart,
and splitting your bone.
The first few days are for the shock,
the slow comprehension of impossible agony.
There’s time to dwell on what he did to you
so your mind can discover every little prick,
every long period of silence,
ever cancelled plan
followed by the perfect arrangement of words
stringing the bait of proposed bliss,
how you bought it without question.
That’s where the pain truly slips in.
That’s when you feel the weight
of every thorn tearing into your flesh.
You’re not even at the part where you realize
removing this blanket means
tearing out each individual thorn.
Oh, how you will bleed.
My heart breaks that you must face this,
to inherit this curse instead of your fantasy
but reality is a cruel bitch.
Settle in. It’s going to be a long road.
LETTERS TO THE DEAD: TWENTY – FOUR
6/24/2018
after Mark Morgan (1950 – 2017)
SO FAR, SO CLOSE
I can see you my friend
Out of the blue
your life reveals itself
in your pencil sketch
the graded shades of gray
without the slightless demonstration
turn into a 3-D of you
Then I hold your paintings to the light
in all their bold relief
of tree bluff and bridgescape
of a spit of outcrop
where sandstone comes clean
of the forested palisade
which arrows through
Valley View like Styx-men’s blood
and I’m two strides
behind you
waiting for the mermaid
to come across on the ferry
It’s not just the sight of you
but the sound that shows
your voice in the vibrant lines
above the ridge of Silver Creek
seek
you say…and
go no further
not a step
How hard it must be to play with a team on your back,
Maradona, the world’s greatest football player in the stands,
all of Buenos Aires gathered to watch at the Plaza San Martin.
In the cacophony of voices, you do what a captain does.
On the pitch, you score a beautiful goal, but the Super Eagles score, too.
As blood oozes from your teammate’s eye, it’s win or go home.
The world wants you to play well. The team is on the edge.
In the 87th minute, Marcos Rojo, a defender, get the winner.
After the passion, the intensity, the final whistle comes relief.
In St. Petersburg, 50,000 Argentinians sing anthems.
The coach rushes off the field, leaving his players
to soak in the victory with embraces long and hard.
The pressure is temporarily lifted.
