Sometimes you have to gut yourself.
Carve out the cancer
with an old rusty knife and no anesthesia
to suffer every slice and tear.
The searing of your flesh against the blade
— a reminder those reckless actions
that felt damn good in the moment
were not so good for you.
And this pain that leaves you
gasping, bent over, scratching your way
across the hardwood floor —
this is your healing.
This is your becoming.
and of course, the sun rose
the next morning, melted
the chocolate in my dashboard. Of course,
the hours relented. I answered
phone calls and completed
my tasks, like everything
wasn’t changing.
Of course, on my commute,
the little brown dog
still barked in his cage,
and I bought arms
of groceries, made dinner.
The sun’s crescendo
still smudged the sky pink
and purple. Of course, the lightning bugs
flickered on like lanterns in the night.
I will rest these tired bones until the morning sun creeps in
I will kiss the willow trees
And I will embrace the cool air
As the earth awakens, I will too
Lay with me in a field of golden rods and write stories for each cloud
Walk with me to the peak of each pinnacle and with each eye-height bird, we shall bow
Climb with me to the roof of my car on the top of Jesse Sears and watch the tired sun as it says good night
Lay with me and speak to each Star with love and adoration
This year will be a continuation
Today began
like a poem,
sunrise,
on the road,
and
then
at
the volcano
no brakes–
5 hours later
as darkness falls,
no headlights,
the way my father
drove in WWII,
eyes peeled,
watching tail lights
of the second car.
On the mountain
above Antigua,
the water pump
goes out.
I take comfort
in the fact
that it won’t
make a difference
in a hundred
years.
Lillibet hides in a corner,
drinks splits of something
supposed to taste like champagne,
features stumps of trees and stumps of men
against a backdrop of vines winding round Saigon’s colonial columns.
Alfie’s fraternity brothers pound him on the back,
speak of old times she does not know,
celebrate. Tomorrow he answers Uncle Sam’s greetings.
The bottle feels cold in her hands.
She rubs it against her face.
Leaving the party, she’s happy-drunk.
For now the future’s safely put to sleep.
Without a goodnight kiss,
he leaves her at the gate.
She stands in sobering night air,
listens to the sounds of his old Plymouth
until silence swallows her.
She slips into deeper darkness.
While it’s still black-dark, she feels sick,
stumbles outside careful
not to let the screen door slap.
In the side yard, farthest away
from her parent’s room,
she lets ancient cedars hear
the little she knows about jungle war and men.
He fails his physical. He’s at her house
the next day before supper.
She stays in her room, swears
to never drink again.
When summer’s over,
he stops calling.
Lillibet cuts her wrist
but only a little.
She holds his memory—
a hot stone inside until
one fall day,
while on a smoke-break outside work,
she sees Alfie,
his hair is thin,
his face liquor-ruined.
A woman younger
than half his age cuddles close.
She reminds Lillibet
of her young self.
And she can’t help but think
just maybe the army
would have been good for him,
thanks God he stopped phoning,
can’t imagine why she ever wanted
to face him all the mornings of her life.
But if you do, you’re allowed to take it off.
Little ones, big ones, in-between ones.
Toss it behind your seat.
Stuff it in your pocket.
Put it on your lap.
Use it to wipe the corners of your mouth when the server lingers.
Give the gift of freedom. They’ll thank you for it.
You don’t have to wear your bra to dinner.
But if you do, you’re allowed to take it off
