with the help of my poetic reality glasses
I can
taste the billowy flavor of a cloud
feel the bristled texture of the day
smell the leavened essence of a memory
hear the dissonant chords of a coral reef
see the pearl’s luster while still inside its shell
I packed a mason jar
of dirt back to Oklahoma
on my last visit home
before I became a mother.
It felt wrong to birth a child
anywhere other than
over Kentucky soil. I sat
it on the bookshelf in the
corner of our kitchen.
As it grew closer to my
due date, I moved it near
the carefully arranged
hospital bag by the
door. When I went
into labor, I forgot about
it in the rush and chaos
of new life. I remembered
when I held my fresh
baby in my arms
and I wept.
Meandered south into the foothills.
Houses lined the highway. We had lunch
at a gas station. The land erupted in woods,
perfectly-tucked homesteads and newer homes
built to sit upon the land like little forts.
The hotel smells like chlorine and coconut.
I wonder why they never change, soften
their Technicolor coverlets and bleached sheets.
Tomorrow, sitting in traffic and waiting for breaks,
in between their shopping, the trees clouded
in smoke.
“Follow in my Steps”
Deeper through the shadowy oaks
toe to heel we go.
Each step is chosen
placed upon the earth with care
gently gliding along.
Grandmother learned
from her mother
to watch and leave not a trace.
The lushness of flora
slide lightly through her slight fingers
as she whispered truth.
Greeting each plant
by botanical latin
my ear has since forgotten.
Present day drifts away
as I journey to the past
of loved ones who have traveled on.
The moral of her story has yet to be told
while pearls of wisdom
slips from comprehension
waiting to be discovered again.
The Bluegrass Fair
presumably going strong
across the town
on a beautiful day
the perfect day
for carnival fun
Text messages sent
Let’s go to the fair
while the weather’s good
gather zero replies
after two days waiting
and I don’t want to go by myself
Today has seen
several poems started
and zero poems finished
just trying to make something good
out of a lonely day
that gives nothing back
i wish
i wasn’t flattered
by the paper crown
woven through your eggshell hair
i wish
i wasn’t flattered
by the amber saliva
dripping from your peppered tongue
i wish
i wasn’t flattered
by the flowering impulsiveness
writhing against your dried eardrums
i wish
i wasn’t flattered
by the seasoned goblet
gripped between your slender fingers
i wish
i wasn’t flattered
by the sightless venom
slithering towards my bare ankles
because we all know flattery is for the weak.
tocsin spreads throughout
valedictory to the hierophants
an arrival of levigation
