Hubris
Forgive me
for complaining
that this world
inconvenienced me
as if I would imagine
a world not defined
by my petty self-concern
How often do we get to capture four
Hundred years of growth and endurance?
On the road to the bridge if you look
To your left, there’s a majestic oak.
Unlike many of this age, well truth to
Tell there aren’t many of this age at all,
But of those still living and breathing
For our benefit, this one is almost perfect.
No gutted trunk, or ugly broken crown,
Limbs are huge, graceful, intact. Leafing
Each spring dresses every limb, even the
Smallest ended twigs, hanging on hoping.
Think what this tree has seen, and does
Not tell. Covered wagons, all trees around
Cleared, virgin ground plowed for crops,
Even cannabis back during World War II.
War after war waged while the oak grew
Gave shade, bird homes, mast for critters.
Oak took in bad air, pumped out life’s force,
Sustained the land in flood and drought.
Our oak has the spunk to live with everlasting
Dangers and threats, yet continues to send
Roots of support and leaves of comfort.
Perchance man might in time come to emulate
The steadfast force this majesty displays?
bisquits and gravy,
scrambled eggs,
orange juice,
jelly toast,
bacon.
mamaw and papaw,
aunts and uncles,
mom and my brothers,
the sun rising, already hot.
the farm, ready for us
to work her fields.
we would bring
the tobacco in
soon.
“drink some water,” Mamaw would say,
“drink some water. It’s gonna be a scorcher.”
one more slice
of burnt bacon,
one more gulp
of OJ,
then we go out,
gather around Papaw,
tall on his tractor,
and start the work.
The stories I like best
about my father involve animals.
The one about the sorrel mare named Sugar,
who he trained and tended til he turned 16
and sold to a local girl because owning a car was cooler.
That the girl won first place with her a year later,
and Dad’s mustang, well, that’s another story.
Some represent lessons of death:
When my father buried his turtle in a sandbox once he thought it had died,
but his older brother’s natural curiosity caused him to chop his apart with an ax,
how Floyd’s turtle resurrected in the spring,
but Don’s never had a chance.
And how my Dad is no saint. How his Aries temper
got the best of him and he flicked an unruly hamster
on the head during a routine cage cleaning,
a fatal knock-out and possible homage to
the boxer Dad was named after.
He was never known to lay a hand on anyone,
despite life’s trials. My dad treated all
protectively, even the stray cat I coaxed home
who later gave birth to four kittens.
The first was stillborn, the second one assisted
by a vet, the last two ushered into our world
after my father learned how he had to help.
the distance between
a mother, trying
to be consistent
in her authority,
sticking to her
words — because she
needs to teach
her to listen,
and her daughter,
five years old,
at the party,
who looks down
at the table
and says softly,
“I’m the only
person here, Mom,
without any cake.”
Yes. It’s a bittersweet decision,
after having no choice.
After days and months at the cancer center,
poison being dripped into her body;
mental fog, nausea and fatigue
the narrowed focus of her life.
After a part of her has been severed;
her flattened chest the insult
of survival.
After beams of radiation
have burned away the strays.
After weight loss, hair loss, loss
of appetite for almost a year.
With the doctor’s encouragement to eat
whatever she wants now, whatever tastes good,
hell yes!
She decides on mint chocolate chip.
“What happened to you?”
You are just back from basic training
All muscles and smile
Standing in my doorway
Taller than ever
Asking impossible questions
How do I answer the impossible?
My mind scrambles for an acceptable truth.
“You hurt me so I ran away.”
“I occupied myself so I wouldn’t die.”
These won’t do.
You are 6 feet tall
and you fill up my doorframe
But my pride is 10 feet tall and
It fills up the room
And the apartment
And me.
“I got a new job,”
I say, tilting my head.
I wonder which of us
Is lying best – me or that smile of yours.
You ask me if I want to come with you
And whoever you’re with
To this other girl’s apartment
To hang out.
My breath catches.
You have the bluest eyes but
You dwell in oblivion.
Best liar award goes to me.
“No,” I say,
“No, I am working on something
and cannot leave.”
(“What are you working on?” you do not ask me,
And I feel but do not say, “I am working on
Not letting you break my heart again.”)
is it the repetitive pattern of my will
that tears and traps
how many ways
to live
to try again
bitter
that first gulp of air
though they slapped me
natal skin turning blue
premature legs pulling taut
i hesitated before birth
another Grand Cross
to bear
who would wish it
but my mother says
i chose to open wide my eyes
mouth wailing
to finally accept
to breathe
to put these dry bones
back together again
god, it hasn’t been easy
but i’m still here
