Posts for June 17, 2019 (page 3)

10 years ago
My husband crocheted me an afghan,
Big enough to cover our king sized bed,
With black and burgundy yarn.  

3 years ago
A small hole in the middle,
Grew larger and larger,
Until my entire body could slip through.
It was no longer usable.
I cut myself a small corner for keepsakes,
And tossed the rest in the dumpster.  

We’ve been married 9 years.
That is 3285 days of marriage.
3285 days of making coffee for each other in the morning,
Being a witness to the face palm moments,
The dorky dance moves,
Those stories we’ve told for the umpteenth time,
Trying and failing to break each other’s bad habits.

It’s been a long road,
Full of rough patches and mistakes,
But at the end of the day
We are glad to have each other.
The knitting may not have held up,
But our love for each other did.

Crisp air amongst us
impression fading quickly
leaves dance with ripples

Painting on water
autumns anticipation
contemplation study

Blurring motion sways
our emotional moments
shifting shadows loom

Tired of counting places I usually
slipped out of town a year too late. I settled
where the slow twining creek turns clay

brown & ripples through the wildwood
like a wedding train. I tired
of counting places, so I turned

to stable shelter, prayed to tame my gypsy
course, marked the proper names & studied
the slow twining creek’s slick bottom.

Burrowing mayfly, speckled Hellbender,
Alabama cavefish. Their lacy-jelled
eggs trembled, while I counted their places

under river rock & branch. Wet stony sand
& storm-brown water rolled over me like a wand
& in the slow twining creek I transformed

to slick-shelled mussel. Nudged by grit
& river junk, cradled by mud, I spit
pearls from trouble & now count my place
in the slow twining creek’s slack embrace.

The overtime
is mandatory now
and may be so
for a while
dooming me
to longer weeks
of work eat sleep
work eat sleep
work
and on my days off
I sleep
because I’m not doing
anything
losing touch with outside
with friends
I’m missing out
on everything
stagnant
been a long time
since I embarked
on some adventure
I’m stagnant
that’s my problem
being stagnant
empowers loneliness
being stagnant
allows waste
being static
becomes inertia
the object at rest
that stays at rest
day in day out
while the world
keeps spinning
I work eat sleep
work sleep eat
on aching feet
in weary body
with muted mind

name___________ birth date________
social security number _________
mailing addresss_________ physical address _______ ( if different) 
number of dependents___
city___state__zip_____how long?_____
employer?_____ meaningful
work done in last 2 weeks?_____
coapplicant?____codependency 
type? (if yes)_____ salary?_____ charitable
contributions?___________________(if not, why?)
asssets:_____ liabilities:______ heft
of your soul:_____ emotional uncertainties:________
regrets? _____ (if none, cease application)
height:____ weight:____
(n/a is not an option)
density:______
velocity:_____ acceleration? _____
do you know excel? _____ do you know
how to excel? 
_______________________
(if yes, reconsider answer)
are you currently insured?_____ are you
spontaneously combustible?_______ from the hours of
2 to 5?_____
do you require any accommodations for 
not being able to cope with existence? ____ (if not,
pat yourself on the back because you’re now my boss)
any known allergies? ____ drug use?____ drug misuse?____
known hostilities or affiliation to hate or political groups?______ (if so only list the racist ones)
purpose?____really?_____
are you sure?

My house sits in that
blue-collar buffer zone
between what used to be 
the middle of the middle class
and the people you might see
on the 11 o’clock local news.

The yard was big and the kids
were small and we figured we’d 
just be here a few years. Three
decades later the neighborhood is
even more boring than it used to be.

But at this point “boring” has
begun to provide a dependable
respite from a fast-changing culture
and the daily proclamations
of our Very Stable Genius.

Having been built in the 60’s
from sturdy materials, its rate
of decay is apparently slower
than my own. What more could
anyone ask of a house?

i will wait for the chain around my ankles 
to pull me under the surface 
down 
until saltwater chokes the back of my throat 
and i breathe fish. 
when the metal births barnacles 
and seaweed curls against my eyelids
i will know the sea is carrying me
down 
where my mouth will only speak 
the waves language. 

There are knives hidden all around the apartment. 

Definitely one in the office. Probably one on the bed.
We’ve both used them and forgotten.
We’ve both opened boxes we weren’t ready for and looked for boxes we hadn’t opened yet.
Already, you’ve cut your hand 3-4 times, 2 of them on those last knuckles before the nails.
I’m bruised but not bloody.

There are metaphors waiting all around the apartment.
Some will cut you open. Probably all will leave a mark.

Years and years and years ago
She would dance in the brilliant colors
Cast through the prism on the windowsill
Over the sink in our kitchen
It made her feel full up of light
Radiating outward from every pore
Like she and I weren’t arriving or departing
But were only here
Barefoot on the linoleum

I remember the day in late July when that lightness came over her so hard
She thought she’d float right up into the ceiling fan
She collapsed in a fit laughter
Trying to imagine that scene in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory
Which of us would be Charlie and which would be Grandpa Joe
I said I had the mustache so it was settled

But as it was she was departing
Leaving me alone for the worst of it
Light still soaked the kitchen floor but
The prism had long been put away or yard-sold or shattered
And the linoleum gone to hardwood
I never knew her name—not for that first part

I didn’t even recognize her the day she came back
It took me a moment to find the courage to take her hand
I led her to the kitchen and showed her how to dig her fingers beneath the wood
Tearing it away from the familiar green pattern
It was the middle of the night but the moonlight was more than enough
When she showed me the prism she had been carrying

I set it on the windowsill
Watched as its image danced over our bare flesh
But we didn’t move
We just held on to one another
Afraid we’d break it