Weaver
This woman, mother-
not-my-mother, weaves
in and out of my life
leaving loose threads
like the deliberate imperfections
hidden in Navajo patterns,
tempering pride.
Looking for a less muddy
or narrower crossing of the stream,
I am caught by a strand
of an old fence,
and like a hand it holds me.
Startled and unbalanced,
I realize all fences here,
were stretched by hands
of the dead.
Most only poke from the ground,
long ago trampled by cattle.
This place is now home
to things gone to earth.
Not everyday will be interesting.
They can’t all be action packed blockbusters
With Michael Bay’s name flashing on the screen.
Drama is best when laid thin.
Too many sparks flying will cause a fire.
Electricity in the air makes danger for your lungs
Cupid can only shoot you both so many times before his arm gets tired.
Not everyday is July Fourth
So I promise it is okay
if there are no fireworks tonight.
While you hesitate in the hall, remember
this is your house
and the door is merely a suggestion
wind so strong
it knocked
the birdhouse
down from its perch
like a child
throwing a tantrum
hope the fledgings
were gone
Have you noticed, and possibly you haven’t
Since you are so, so lucky
Perhaps your only experience with outside
Is walking from your air-conditioned car into Starbucks
There are no children on the streets
Playing tag, riding bikes, pulling hair, throwing balls
The modern, cool, plugged in world
Has eliminated all this and more
Like poetry
Nobody reads poetry anymore
If a few and dwindling number of teachers didn’t make their students
Who would know poetry even existed?
Of these
Most assign a value less than valueless
Poetry, like cursive or going outside or politeness
Vanished in that time we didn’t even watch go by
Luddites who have developed an affectation for poetry
Use their fetish as a way of separating
Declaring nobility, insight, depth to any who will listen
(No one outside the self-selected club ever hears)
(Most never even knew sounds were made)
Today’s “great” poets aren’t great for what they write
But what they look like
Or who they knew when
Or that their words may be used by those in power
Or those who want to be
They say the footprints in the sand are the signs
God is walking beside you and I see Her walking,
but its past my “Shore
you can say that, you can do
That” is what I never said
I’m in the sand buried neck deep
while he builds his sandcastle on my chest
of drawers filled with clothes i can no longer wear
because i am as healthy as that broccoli you order when you really want fries
like the sun fries me as i lay there
and i want to move because the tide is rising
but he isn’t done building so he says “hold on” for just a minute
a minute
whoever said a minute could be harmless
has never played Clue
they are the butler in the
bathroom with the
candle stick
and they thought they caught it like a cold in the Winter
when i wear that hat to hug my brain because it can’t get warm
enough to change my blue lips that started turning the color
of the night sky
The night when he stopped building his sandcastle
and left me to dig myself from the depths of the sand,
i was fighting the tide
to stay alive.
I have adventures!
They may be in the grocery store,
deciding if I want
regular ranch
or chipotle ranch,
or at the gas station
getting Premium for the first time
instead of regular,
but I have them.
It may be
wearing a different
perfume today,
and wondering if someone
will notice,
but it counts.
Sometimes,
my adventures
consist of
figuring out
which color of lipstick
I should use.
I usually stick with pink.
Don’t go crazy, Tori.
You’re crazy, Tori.
You’re crazy, Tori.
You’re crazy.
Waking up is an adventure,
becasue there are so many nights
when I think I won’t make it
because I can’t catch my breath
or the monsters are after me
again.
They’re right there!
Can’t you see them?!
Getting out of bed is an adventure too,
because most days,
I just want to lie there
and let the blankets
swallow me whole
and then sink into the mattress
where no one can find me
or hurt me.
I want to disappear
into the ether
and find another life,
one where
“Hey, you should kill yourself today”
isn’t the first thing I think
when my alarm goes off.
I want to find somewhere
where my marriage
isn’t tainted by
“what if he leaves you”
or
“he doesn’t love you”
even though
he tells me
he does.
I want to laugh
without the fear
that I’m too loud
or that I sound like
a hyena
who inhaled an
entire balloon
of helium.
I want to sing
loudly and off-key
just because I can,
goddammit.
I want to be free.
So I will go on adventures,
I will buy chipotle ranch
and wear black lipstick
because if I can feel alive
for even one brief moment,
I can survive.
Missy your eyes are blue as arctic ice
aged ten thousand years in wisdom,
blue as renegade scarlet is to red,
bluer than blue goblins dancing on an emerald sea.
Fortuitous yet permanent as they gaze
over and beyond me
to mystery far away.
How can I catch them?
How can I hope to reach them?
Don’t let me possess and break you.
Shun me and my burning
candle of adoration.
But forgive
The mind that I love
must understand feral
and fierce. That mind
must be willing to leave
tangled the involute—
those jagged-edged
intertwined indigo-tinged-
with-violet leaves
riotous in the least wind
their crumbling brown
chaos of after.
That mind must see past
the wall of thorns
curving like teeth
dive in as if a bloody
ocean were
desirable.
It must accept the broad
sky dried by sun
and the shade of thicket
dark as blueberries
staining tongue.
That mind must crave storm
crawl through thunder
clasp lightning
to reach a body dappled
purple underneath
the sweet plum tree
its leaves rusting burgundy
and kissed by snake
undulations. That mind
will dance in monsoon
lick its lips
in drought.
