Posts for June 27, 2018 (page 3)

she can’t stop laaaughin
cause sadness makes her feel so god damn high
stuck at an altitude 
that would take my breath away
kinda how she does
cause I can’t even climb a flight of stairs

we’re only two years apart
why would you be dead

a joke: what’s the best thing about switzerland?
idk but its flag is a big plus
say it at the bar for laughs tonight
throw a frisbee
have the type of fun you can have till your forty
and never get tired of

cigarettes and french fries
really good scrambled eggs in bed with me

I’m drunk and I wanna kiss you
I’M DRUNK AND I WANNA KISS YOU
46% sure I dreamed that conversation
read into my laughter over the internet 
let’s make out in a kayak
I was a girl scout baby I’ll keep you warm

sorry for the elective dietary restrictions 
that prevented you from making me eggs

a family at sea
we all thought of you
but none of us could say your name

wine and food
laughter and memories
a celebration of your father
80 years alive, 9 without his daughter
tiptoeing around your absence 
and yet unable to deny 
your bright spirit
guiding us closer, just as always

after, we could all feel you
i held your daughter
and let her cry 
i turned around and held your mother
she said a tearful, simple
“not a day goes by”

losing you still feels sudden
but like the lighthouses you loved
you’re a light we trust
a solid presence that guides us back 
to the family land we will forever share
no matter how far out to sea we go

i
In defense of innocence,
Poised between little devils and cherubs,
Warbudened.
In medias res.
ii
I’ve been as sheepgarbed wolf,
In the House of the Tiger.
I’m indentured to this crocodile cycle,
Six rows of teeth holding back an ocean of dogs;
As a natal stage heaven, not yet ready to emerge.
iii
There’s been a carnival in red desert,
All lace and flames,
Careenstep and cacophony.
Standing as a carousel;
A joyous prayer for rains.

a night of angry weather
calm after the rage
peace, replenishing of earth

Place the honey on the tongue,
   the feather in the palm, the sunlight
      in the hair.
         Call it compassion.

How we take the world and give an acre –
doesn’t all ground touch your same feet?

The lesson happens despite
the language, because speaking happens
without meaning.

Don’t you know
   it gets cold
      in San Francisco?
         Haven’t you been worn
like fog?

I want to allow you the recognition
of your own softening.

You remove the gum from the bottom of my shoe
and find me library books I love to read.

You fill the birdfeeder and clean the litter box
and assemble the day’s menu and oil the hinges.

You play scrabble although I am suspicious
because you never win. You walk around the block

with me. You buy tickets for the next ballgame
or play. You inform me about the weather.

You point out the possum in the backyard
and the heron on the shore. You feed the cats.

You curb my enthusiasm and celebrate my victories.
You answer my wonder questions. You leave the light on.

In Guatemala City Today

I do not need to write a poem
to you from Kentucky today,
or about you from such distance,
but I will write a few lines for you
from the next room in your city, Guatemala.  

This morning I saw the left mala
below your left eye. It forms a profile of you
that is good for poetry, though in this instance,
you cup your face, for it gives away
your excitement when you read a poem,  

one with your name as the title. Its content,
obvious to you. Your hands also hide
your smile as beautiful as Old Seventy Creek
in the morning, the only sunlight
coming between a canopy of trees.  

Between your fingers, you voice no pleas,
no feelings for words I beg to write,
no verbal instructions  to reveal how meek
you are, mingled with Maya pride,
and so, I am left to pen my soul’s intent.

I often try to remember the way I saw the world as a child 

Is it any different than now? 

I can’t remember a thing 

But the sand still feels incredible on my toes 

The stars still take my breath away 

Bubble baths are still the best way to end a day 

Chocolate milk is still a guilty pleasure (lactose intolerance) 

And I’m still curious of what I’ll be when I grow up

I’m not sure how the world works 

Or what determines the weather 

I’m still scared of the dark and the space underneath my bed 

I still hide knives under my pillow 

I don’t know yet if there’s a purpose to the routine 

But the stars still take my breath away and I choose to hold to that 

The polished moon set into the fog rising dull from the western sea at the end of a close night. Your lips next to thick strands of damply clinging hair descending your cheek were salt from tidal pools and sweat, swollen from service to your passion. We stood to brush at soft sand that clung to our bodies like love, walked to meet the coming tide. There you took the same care selecting driftwood to juggle for my amusement as you used to elect your lovers while the waves built and broke behind you in the thrall of a sudden gust just as I had inside you at your bidding.

the white between my eyes is yours

yellow-crowned night heron performs in a ballet,
keen of eye, slicing seriously through the
bright green algae, with its even brighter
yellow legs.

it is stilted.
it does not break the fourth wall.

it is standing room only.
broken slate steppes water passes over easily.
one goose, for all the ducks  dabbling–
could only be some domestic, tho it
truly favors the greater white-fronted.

i put her on.
her beak suits me.
her make-up broadens my chest in which an
accordion weaves stories preachers daughters say.
the white between my eyes is where we all
exist, eventually.