trying to say god 12
the child
faces surgery
asks the poet
to write
a poem
just for him
Guests, attendants, lookie-loos,
Turn your eyes away from the spotlighted stage, for your pupils have grown weary and my voice has grown coarse.
–an intermission–
Take one moment,
un-blind-sided
just breathe
you’re okay
we’ve got you
I hate being invisible
for what it does to you.
When you fly toward me
I am burdened with
knowing what you don’t.
Every day it wears
me down. The thuds,
the sick crunch of
your little bones,
watching you
twitch then go
still on the ground.
I always hope
you will wake
up, I am crushed
every time you don’t.
I never asked to
be clear and
powerless.
In my dreams I have
a face, a voice, and
hands. You can see
how worried I am
for you, I call out
warnings, I wave
you away or
catch you gently
when you get
too close.
You feel soft
and safe in my
hands, your
light body makes
tiny movements,
it tickles. You see
me smile as you
fly away.
You see me.
You fly away.
The story begins with a friend with a particular name.
That name doesn’t matter and
neither does the friend really.
This isn’t about her.
Rather, it’s about another girl with the same name.
I met this girl at the intersection
of God knows where
and God knows when
where after God knows what
I obtained her phone number,
after which, we completely forgot about each other.
Since, she lingered in my contact list
waiting for the day I wanted to text my friend
and clicked the wrong name.
What a mistake that turned out to be.
In this single thumb stroke of bad luck
I exposed myself as a male stranger
correctly matching her name to her number,
worrying her as one should be in such a case.
I could have been an axe murderer.
What followed was a two hour interrogation about everything:
every job I worked, school I attended,
churches I worshipped, bars I drank at,
family members, close friends, distant friends, everything
except for my debit card and social security number.
No piece of information helped us find God knows where,
the one forgettable time we met.
Of course, it didn’t help that she refused
to offer up even the least bit of information
about herself.
She claimed to have a cop friend
who could run a background check on me.
I told her go for it!
All of his friends could join in the fun,
maybe they could come to my place for poker or something.
Then I pleaded for an end to the misunderstanding.
She could stop texting
and I wouldn’t push,
but she couldn’t do that.
She had to make sure I wasn’t an axe murderer.
(I did have to wonder at this point,
if I was planning an axe murdering,
what advantage would I gain from texting like this?
Psychological torture? Just getting off? I don’t know.
I’ve never murdered someone with an axe before.)
My final plea was to solely rely
on the simplest answer between us,
that we just didn’t leave lasting impressions on each other.
She gave me her number, I never texted,
we just forgot.
Oh no! she said,
I am way too responsible with myself
to ever give my number to a guy
without knowing when and where
and I would never forget!
I told her I didn’t know what to say then.
We weren’t going to remember anything
and I was surrendering all power to her.
This was somehow disarming enough
that it brought an end to the battle.
After the fact, I was able to laugh with friends about it,
writing it off as just some random encounter.
I asked a lot of people if they knew
a girl by that name.
Nothing.
This would be our only memorable encounter,
but the real sadness was this highlighted human truth;
it was so much easier for a stranger
to accuse me of being an axe murderer
than admit the possibility she might have made one mistake in her life.
In front of me
in line at the Berea
Walmart on Sunday
morning after clouded
black skies have soaked
the town with a hard
& ruthless rain Ida Joy
waits. Her frayed blue
baseball cap says, Not
today Satan. She has so
much ink—a dark navy
crucifix on the back
of her neck, face
of Jesus on her right
forearm, butterflies
& roses intertwined
on her left. Short-shorts
expose long skinny
legs with tatted ankle
bands, hearts
on her left, daisies
on her right. Can’t
look away & I wonder
is she mountain
angel or camoflagued
demon? Victim or
survivor? Maybe both.
A Word of Caution
Play with fire all
you want, but
remember this:
there is one thing
fire never forgets,
and that is how
to burn you.
every time i ask you a question i expect the answer i want to hear
and when its not the response i get, it hurts worse than if i’d never asked to begin with.
i gave up too much to give you up,
but i’ve lost you already anyway.
Drifting silently down the Licking River
to witness the slow motion ballet
of what remains of what was.
Blue Heron greets my passage
ankle deep king of the reeds
spreads wings of glory without acknowledgement.
Snapping turtle sunning
on the fossilized encrusted rock ledge
as if to say I am still here, I am still alive.
Small mouth bass waiting
on the outward curve bend of the river
working against the current
to remain where they are
until the next meal comes to them.
Me drifting along in life
spreading wings of thought
I am still alive
waiting for my next meal.
