Posts for June 9, 2019 (page 3)

Safe behind the camouflage
of three squirmy young children,
I myself squirm a bit
on my cheap imitation leather seat
and wonder.

Casting a quick glance
over the curious piles of paper
littering his table,
they appear haphazard,
but he seems to know their order,
seems to have their contents
meticulously organized
in the bookshelves of his mind.

Stray donut crumbs litter my own table,
and appear haphazard,
but I know their order
and meticulously scoop them
into a tidy napkin
as I hastily scan the bookshelves of my own mind,
desperate in my attempt
to make sense
of his seeming nonsense.

He scrawls and scribbles
on the smooth white backs
of those precious papers,
while my kids drool and dribble
on the smooth white glaze
of their precious donuts.

What’s he doing,
I long to discover,
sitting alone,
at a dirty table,
in a donut shop at 10:30 a.m.?

What I am doing,
I long to discover,
sitting alone,
with three now-dirty faces,
in a donut shop at 10:30 a.m.?

It has nothing whatsoever
to do with
donuts.

You thought this whole “not eating” thing
was bullshit,
I know

Said “I’m worried about you”
Said “If you’re not going to eat,
don’t tell me about it,
at least”
and I swore to you that I’m trying
but here it is,
an inconvenience

My mom seemed to never eat
either/too
I thought it was just a thing
moms did

Then you’re yelling at me
in a grocery store, in the frozen food aisle
beside a bin of bags and bags
of tubes of popsicle juice
red and purple and blue and childish
on sale for the summer
because I won’t make up my mind
and I say I feel dumb (ashamed)
and I say it’s not about the ice cream

And later, you tell me, it’s funny:
you have these same fights with your mom
She says it’s not about the ______
it’s about the way you bite

But it’s true,
our latest series of fights
is all about food

Dear Kamion,  

I remember when you returned to school after Lucy died —
the air charged with gossip and suspicion.
Some whispered accident.  Others screamed murder.
You walked the halls in a zombie trance.
Some labeled it mourning.  Others named it guilt.
You didn’t speak to a single person.
Some recognized your shock.  Others viewed your silence as pride.
You decided to finish your credits at home.
Some saw depression.  Others marked cowardice.   

A week ago, we celebrated your graduation.
Some sang triumph. Others plotted retaliation.
Early this morning, a gunshot took your life.
Some grieve for suicide.  Others give praise for justice.
I hope –
whichever side of the story is truth — 
the ending for you is peace.  

With love,
Your Teacher

I watch the girls on stage
in their sparkly dresses.
And I wonder if I will
ever be that beautiful,
ever wear something that pretty,
ever feel that seen.

It’s not about money.
It’s not about hating on
some thin genetic girls.
So much of life
lays beyond the closet door
that’s been locked and bolted,
barrricaded,
from both sides.

I’ve been lectured about why
I shouldn’t want to be a woman
or why I’m unworthy to be one.

I wish I had left my life behind
when I was still
young and dumb enough
to start over.

Now I wait for impossible conditions
including
courage that may never come.

And I watch the world through
my keyhole
and I long for the day when
I will be beautiful, sparkly, and seen.

Kissing Karma     
Xanthous silk sorrow-
A fever pitched pain
Settled in the whole                         

Sometimes, falling for someone
is like listening to a new album
released by your favorite band
endlessly, for hours and hours.

Other times, it must happen slower,
learning to appreciate the album
song by song, track by track,
before you can truly grasp perfection.

Once a cat throne, purple fabric folded high,
a soft gray dent worn in the middle
from plenty of sleeping

before that, a frustration, 
a needy project requiring more
fabric, more time, more money

at the beginning, a class at the quilt store,
fun afternoon with a friend,
layered with disappointments,
like the coordinating colors of the Jelly Roll
which were not quite enough

and now, a race against time,
the cat moved on to softer beds,
the fabric’s all there, investment
made, costs sunk
and all it needs is a few solid hours
to transform
from an unfinished work-in-progress
to a beloved family heirloom
rich with memories.

Gateway comatose
ingress constellation cell
divides direction

Modify control
infinitesimal change 
existence revised 

She expels a gentle breath towards a pink plastic halo
the thin chemcial membrane stretches and envelops the breath
giving life to a plump and quivering orb.
it rises on a scorching wind and
helixes into the sky.
She, the Breath Mother, breaths in more deeply and
releases another powerful breath.
many orbs are born.
they rise quickly after their eldest sibling- all except the very final one
it is small. given life from the very last wisps of air drawn from Her lungs.
it turns to face its Mother
it is not yet ready to leave Her
the orb wants to land upon Her windchapped cheek 
right on the swell of her cheeckbone and
gaze at the sun awhile
the orb rejects the scorching wind and
instead, rides the faintest breeze to Her.
it gently lands on her cheeckbone 
(right below her eye)
“Hello, Mother. I am home,” the orb wishes to say, but it hasn’t the mouth for it
suddenly, the Breath Mother blinks.
Her eyelashes are like many knives
piercing the thin membrane of her youngest.
the orb pops.
the Breath Mother draws more air into Her lungs.
and up in the sky,
the orb’s breathren blow gently away on the scorching wind.

and almost endless expanse of concrete, stops in the path of a tank, and waves his arms. Confronted with his pants and shirt, black and white cloth simple against the gray landscape, the green and brown of the metal beast’s skin seem almost festive. One day, perhaps, there will be celebrations here, but now only the silence of a world’s held breaths and a world’s stilled hearts, waiting, afraid to look, afraid to look away. So many endings stretch toward the horizon, so many ways for one man to live or die protesting yesterday’s uncounted deaths in this same place, but in the end we choose the easiest: A man walks out of a square, and is forgotten.