untitled
Snow on pine
Cone
Drops
Now Sal was a girl
With a fine-toothed comb
That she used to style her hair
And Jack was a man
Who didn’t take note
When she saw him standing there
He had only eyes
for a brown-eyed beauty
By the name of Betty Marie
But Sal intercepted
And let him know
There was something more to see
She lured him with humor
And she wooed him with wit
Till her escort he became
And they walked many nights
And talked real low
Till he called her Betty’s name
Sal was as patient
As she knew how to be
But her mama didn’t raise no fool
He showed his thoughts
And heart besides
So she moved off for school
She married well
And bore her brood
Found work with her degree
And last she knew
He was pining still
For the ghost of Betty Marie.
I don’t want to be two people anymore.
Each always afraid of the other.
I don’t want a dichotomy of existence
between sink and swim.
I want to be my own meeting place.
Perhaps I’ll be a bridge.
One I haven’t managed
yet to burn.
Don’t make me the golden gate,
washing any more
of those beautiful feet
before their quick descent
and resurrection.
We don’t quite know
how to walk on water.
I know now that after the jump,
each collision creates a wave.
Oceans aren’t the only bodies
that ripple.
I know how each dive,
each surge,
has collateral damage.
We are all so easily pulled
by the undertow.
I wish I could go back
to say
I am angry
and thank you for that.
I wish go back
to tie a knot at the end
of a different rope.
I wish I could extend
a raft, a buoy, a hand.
I wish I could know
how you did it
or at least
how I never even saw
that last surge of water
coming and leaving.
I wonder how it feels
to stop treading water
and filling our lungs
in hopes we can
just stay afloat.
How does it feel to surrender
to our own unexpected tsunami?
I’m not sure if I knew
I could swim
before now.
I’m not sure if I knew
I could get out on shore.
I’m not sure if I knew
this pain is a pit-stop
not an exit.
With whatever echo
my voice carries underwater
I am so angry…
for all I know now
and
for all
I failed to know
before.
Diner Topple
Today we saw a hawk circling
the sky. Our teacher called it
a bird of prey, hunting smaller birds
for food. It’s sad that the larger
pick on the smaller, like at lunch
today when two older boys tripped
me while I was carrying my tray.
My clothes were a mess, chili stains
of “brick red” all over my new shirt.
We had been playing in the back
yard all afternoon when a man
in a panel van pulled up to our house.
We didn’t give him a glance
until mother called us into the living
room to sit on the floor and stare
at a screen in a wooden cabinet
on which fuzzy images floated past.
The man was on the roof hollering
to my brother to see if the picture
was better. No and no again.
He came down to fiddle
with the set and to say he’d fix it
before the show began. We fidgeted
and squirmed, the man went back
on the roof and at last all was clear:
“It’s Howdy Doody Time”
Buffalo Bob and Clarabell
the Peanut Gallery
then the red-headed star himself
in an awkward song and dance.
It was ok
but we wanted to go back out
to play
This is where the roots are
for a city transplant,
bitter immigrant
at 5 on the farm.
There’s nothing to do.
Wildflowers wave
overhead
in pony pasture paradise.
Tadpoles behind glass
swim in circles.
Kitten races amuse
in the hayloft.
Bike tires bump on gravel.
Fishing at the pond,
woody walks,
creeking and catching frogs
filled up days.
Country crafted deep love
it takes a convert
45 years to realize.
