I am a freckle bearer
My skin a door they must comment on before
Moving past to enter other rooms of thought
“I have not eaten the heart…”
— from the 42 Negative Confessions, Papyri of Ani
Equivocation is a dance for the nimble-footed; I’m naked save this smile
and Ma’at ain’t buying it. How many things can I say
with absolute honesty, sweetened with sincerity, tempered
with humility? She reaches inside my chest, like so many
before, cracking my ribs like snow crab legs, nails click-clacking inside
a bone cage—and I hear myself explaining, rambling, dithering,
maintaining eye contact the way I never could, alive with a woman.
Forty-Two “declarations of purity” roll off the tongue
I no longer possess—and she is setting this Libran heart
to one side of her scales. I watch for it—that magician’s moment
she’ll produce her feather. I know it’s not—I know I’m not—balanced.
So many confessions in the mouth but one lodges in the throat, my eyes
lingering in the lines of her languid slow-motion, her legs an aquiline ocean
crashing. Crashing. Crushing—and I’m sure I shouldn’t notice, shouldn’t
be anywhere, be anything, Other than this ritual—but I’ve always been
a sucker for goddesses. In whatever remains of mind’s nook or cranny, we are
already together, as the heroes of myth in their trysting, limbs and torsos
twisting and pressing, before undressing truths forever unspoken
on the ground. She smirks without need of meeting
my eyes and thankfulness abound
there’s no Egyptian word for lust. I finish,
the golden scales tip
at the corner of her lips
Say it again, she purrs
and I know
which one
of the forty-two
she means:
“I have not eaten the heart…,” I try,
but we both know
that feather will never fly.
Ants, again. I watch them caravan
along the bottom of my cabinets, and file
into the one that holds the honey jar.
Oh no you don’t.
I coldly orchestrate their deaths. I smash
them with my middle finger, swipe them up
with a wet paper towel. Some wriggle
as I rinse them down the drain. I poison
them with bug spray. Two days later,
the ants reappear. Now I’m forced
to evacuate the contents of my cabinets;
scrub away any sugary residue; consolidate
the two half-full boxes of baking soda;
throw out the expired Oyster Sauce, a bag
of crystallized brown sugar and a packet
of lumpy Egg Drop Soup mix. Remaining
essentials are plastic-bagged, reassigned
on the shelves: ant-proof cabinet space,
sweet with symmetry.
Morning
First reading,
not poetry,
not crafting,
not the art of writing,
what happens to my day?
My mind gropes for something to say.
My feelings start writing
over my thoughts like rafting
the Cumberland River where poetry
becomes an oak, so tall, needing
an eagle’s rough nest to comple it,
nothing more,
nothing less,
no art except
the water flowing
past.
Americans spend billions on trips
to the multiplex to watch superheroes
exercise their superpowers
because they mostly feel helpless
and hopeless so they try to escape
all this shit for a couple of hours.
I’m pretty sure the ant on the side
of my car is the same one that was
right there twenty minutes ago
before I drove around New Circle
at 60 miles an hour which is more than
amazing as the math will soon show.
Imagine yourself on the side of a vehicle
500 yards long and 200 yards tall. Now
try to hold on when the thing hits Mach 50.
I can’t say for sure, but I imagine you’d fall.
So the next time you see some posers in spandex
and their millions of fans all making a fuss, know
that we’re already surrounded by superheroes and
we’d be screwed if they weren’t so much smaller than us.
1) I attended public school
2) I was bullied while attending public school
3) I support public schools
Refine your diagnosis of insanity to masochism with a bonus question!
3sm) I support the retired teachers’ pension demands
having slain the emperor
his battery down to 3%
the android falls at the feet
of the poet’s daughter
and lowers his head in prayer.
even from the third floor window
the city skyline never fails
to impress with its
pale gray indifference
on the sidewalk below:
the peons, the chatterers,
the wannabes–
screw those worker bees
anyway,
third floor is good, but
fourth would be better
standing motionless at the window–
time to check the plan:
• become her “trusted friend”
• make friends with her manager over the next six months
• convince her she “deserves more”
• sleep with her
• take photos and video
• break off the “relationship”
• wait six months
• post photos and videos
• makes sure everyone sees
• send anonymous “complaints”
• sit back and enjoy the show
• wait for her manager to tell me I “should apply” for the vacancy
you know,
being a sociopath
has its advantages
in business
and they never suspect you
when you are
a woman
Brown line on the trees
shows us where the river rose
during the flood. We
can drive past without
needing to worry or fix
the hidden damage.
New, brick, fancy doesn’t fit.
There it sits in a field sold
When times were lean, stark
Reminder when hail shredded crop .
Folks live there, keep to themself,
Not handy when troubles strike
And every soul is needed to help
Fight back whatever foe attacks.
The lost field laid with a gentle rise
Covered with daisies, clover, rye
In season. Trickle of a stream sang by
On its way to the earthen blocking dam.
Driving by house four, my eyes blur,
A kindness that spares the sight
And lets the day be undisturbed by
Thought of the storm cost loss.
The road folks do not have years
Enough to let the house join us.
Stubborn, proud ever clanned
By a past that is slipping into dust.
Fences make good neighbors? Well,
New houses don’t echo Frost.
We hug our past and wishes tell
Of yesterday and yesterday’s lost.
