Posts for June 16, 2019 (page 3)

I would have done anything for him, I think,
standing above the little tea-colored face. Outside the clouds amass,
their plump bellies scudding the tops of trees,
filling my chest and throat. I hear my father scream
ohgodno
and my stomach clenches into a slick knot. I can’t look at her, the girl who carried a tiny malformed heart for nine months.
She is so small in my peripheral, a child being eaten alive by grief. Wet
moans follow me outside into a circle of curious stares and nicotine
and I wish I could swallow the words stuck in my throat or expel them,
the condolences that feel heavy on my tongue but weigh nothing outside. Everyone looks so small, diminished by that tiny coffin and small hands
perfectly formed, curled as though in sleep.
Later, I’ll look down and see graveyard dirt on my tights
and remember the hollow sound
my white rose made when I tossed it down to him.
I’ll think of him there under the snow,
never knowing how much he was already loved.
Not imagining that a woman he never saw
would do anything to change the outcome,
even steal a little heart to place gently in his chest, like an offering.

(after Evalyn Holy’s painting, Daydreaming)    

The days roll by, the miles pass.
That isn’t strictly true. I move,
while time and topography
take scant notice of me,
and my mind travels farther,
a separate being roaming afield.  

I could be a malachite,         I see myself a jaguar,
happily low in status,           an apex predator                    
content to thrive on              who doesn’t need
putrid carcass flesh,             carrion to survive,
fresh dung,                             who fears only Man
rotting fruit.                           and ubiquitous Time.
Short-lived, fearful,              My purr in the night
I scare nothing,                     scares more than
bring nothing harm.            any lion’s roar.  

Coming back, I see myself straddling the two,
possessing qualities of each while leaning
toward the butterfly, its vulnerability balanced
by gentle ways, and know I want to come back,
not by resurrection or rebirth, but incarnation.  

I remember my Daddy’s
little black S10 – I learned
to drive in that truck
with him in the passenger’s
seat taking the backroads
on Sunday afternoons.
Dad imparting life wisdom
and stories of his youth,
commenting on the weather
and our deep conversations
of politics and religion.
Maybe that’s why I still
prefer to go the long way,
off the beaten path,
winding, an adventure –
I think of dad and my
last moments of
childhood stretched
along the miles of those
Eastern Kentucky hills.

Twain wrote about
lightning versus lightning bugs, in relation
to writing the right word.
This summer, I’d honestly settle
for either. Might even prefer
that gentle glow; seeking shelter
on mullein and plantain, gracelessly air-dancing
to the constant rip and roll, deluging
all I try to nurture.

Consequence unknown
culmination conclusion
significance lost

Invasive species
environmental chaos
short term solution

It’s begun. The
part that includes
holding hands and kissy moments:
My forehead, your cheek,
one another’s hands, lips. They feel easy,
and the glances of acceptance we share
long after I leaned in
to a wide life and roommate
after roommate. You keep seeming to be
the best fit yet and

when you kiss my shoulders and back,
it’s one of the constant varied reminders
that this unexpected Bluegrass half the country
away from my Rocky Mountain home state
is where I was meant to find
something my soul always sensed
after the thaw in the middle of a sleepy spring.

On the seventh day
     of the seventh month,
I pray:
   that the sky is bright and gay
      for the lovers to see each other
       on the bridge of magpies
        after a year-long-wait.

Note: 
The seventh day of the seventh month in a lunar calendar (around August) is the Weaver Festival in Eastern Asia. It is derived from a Chinese legend about the love of the Weaver and the Herdsman, represented by the stars Vega and Altair respectively. Because of their love, the Weaver neglected her work on clothes for the gods while the Herdsman neglected his cattle. As a result, the Heavenly Emperor punished them by putting the two stars on two opposite sides of the Milky Way, decreeing that they should be allowed to meet once a year, on the seventh day of the seventh month, when a charm of heavenly magpies use their wings to form a bridge that the lover stars can use to be with each other. However, the magpies will not make the bridge unless it is a clear night. If it rains, the lovers must wait until next year. On this festive occasion, poems are written in dedication to the two starry lovers, and women pray to the Weaver for skill in weaving, sewing, music, poetry, and other arts.

I used to paint the same seascapes again and again. 
Huge blocks of sky.
The boats getting a little smaller, 
the clouds getting a little bigger each time
Until there was nothing to see but swirling tempest

stop crying while you push
your feet into empty sneakers
the tears have nowhere to go 
as they roll down the crevices in your lips 
and sizzle on the muddy sock threads

The witches blessings come in many forms,
Dandelions and cigarette butts;
Burlap and chicken wings;
Sweat and forty bucks.

It’s taken two decades and change of trying to embody these things,
Before realizing the effort was misplaced.
Hexblooded and beaming,
“I am what I am” is the name of God.