Tool Kit
Fill your artist’s bag
with small contemplations.
Broken twig, bumblebee wing.
the moment when the party is about to fall apart
after all the hours of cleaning and preparation
but one friend says, “No, we’re going to do this;”
and goddamnit at that point it all comes together,
and next thing you know “Naughty Girl” blasts
through the speaker, and this party that almost
wasn’t a party is a fucking party and that’s all
you wanted in the first place – to hell with original
plans – Poetry is in charge now, and Poetry knows
that all a party needs is Beyoncé blasting, people
dancing – Poetry shut the cat in the bedroom
and said, “Everybody here better move your ass.”
i curl a fist to practice
dig my nails into my palms
wonder if i could leave crescents in his skin, too.
black glass buildings, belly up
eat away at the stars
i pray for a streetlight
pray that when he pushes me to the ground
i will at least see the moon
i remember my bare legs
untuck my shirt to make up the difference
if there were blood on my knees
would they see blood, or the skin beneath?
i pray for the girl across the street
wonder if she wears crescents, too
Five years ago I believed it was fate to have met you,
that the heavens opened up and spit you out at my feet
and you were made just for me.
I loved you with an all consuming love,
a kind of love that burns you from the inside out,
a supernova kind of love.
The first time you ever put your hands on me,
my brain begged me to leave you,
but my heart convinced me to stay.
She said my magic love could fix you,
if I love you just enough, you’ll be a good man,
you’ll actually love me back and mean it.
She was wrong, of course.
Not even my angel love can defeat demons like that.
Today would have been our fifth anniversary.
I am celebrating without you,
gifting some angel love to myself.
For that, I am grateful.
The sunlight from my window trickles in. I smile as I slowly remember I’m not supposed to be here.
The hand grasped around my neck slowly gets tighter, progressively stronger. Advancing into my final moments of life, my eyes roll back. It lets go and pronounces it’s thoughts onto my own as a joke. Anxiety has come into my life for another stroll. On a whim it’s back again…ready to seize me as it’s unexpected victim. Running back into the chaos of fear, it’s black and I can hear the screams again. Oh please, make them stop…they’re so loud. The sunlight shifts to rain. The screams turn into pours. You’re meaning to stand there and tell me this is normal? A part of growing up? Back to the past, December. The pouring rain turns into teardrops in my eyes as I’m writing my goodbye note. Now as I stand here smiling in June, I’m happy to be alive. Life is beautiful.
O faithful canine companion
I take a little bit of you
with me wherever I go
Dog hair here – Dog hair there
And yes, I have photos of you on my phone
My friends and I share stories of canine cuteness
so you are frequently in my conversations
I know you have me well trained
one nudge from your nose
and the look in your eyes
lets me know when it is
time to get up
time to go out
time to go for a walk and
time for a treat from the top of the ‘fridge
Because of you there is hair everywhere!
If you were not here there would be no hair
But there would be no greeting at the front door
there would be no bedtime ritual
there would be no warm snuggles
No cold wet nose
Life would be pretty lonely
There would be no hair
but since I love you
I sweep up the hair and decide
it doesn’t really matter
it’s neither here nor there
Painted Leaves
I’ve often wondered why
leaves change colors.
Not that there’s anything
wrong with green,
but autumn is an artist’s
palette. A “red-orange” tree
is like a bonfire blazing high.
I love coloring fall trees.
The saddest season is when
leaves turn brown,
and drop to the ground.
When I was 4 & 5
I lived in a house my father built
in Top of the Ridge
next to a woods
200 feet above
the Little Miami River
I go back there
to sit on a fallen tree
I remember
climbing limber
young trees
maybe these
that have fallen
I climb high to make the tree lean over
lowering my toes to the ground
holding on, jumping as high as
the tree would take me,
the spring in its back
placing me back
down
I remember sitting on exposed rocks
pulling apart loose pieces;
shells, bones, coral: speaking their history
to my wide open ears
I was here. I am here
under these salt waters.
a small child finding her small place in time
dad left us
mom 5 months pregnant
with 5th child
I was 6
my only image is the
suitcase
gone from the top shelf
of the closet
an empty space the size of a
paper grocery
bag
