Implode
Explosive hearts
Quick wits
Sharp tongues
Reach their breaking-points
When lungs fill to capacity
When throats close themselves
When lips permanently seal
And we implode
there are
wings
in my hair
and my feet
in the earth.
i hear your voice
telling me,
“do not be afraid.”
water swells
in my eyes
as the flames
lick
higher
and i
resign myself
to burn.
Yes-
ter-
day
I
wore
a
hat,
and
to-
day
I
still
feel
it
pressed
a-
gainst
my
fore-
head.
What
other
deeds
have
im-
printed
me?
a man clearing a hillside.
He’d weed-whacked a large plot,
but in the center of the cleared space,
he left a patch of black-eyed Susans.
Sometimes I am the man, determining
how to tend the soil of my choices.
Lately, I’m the flowers,
hoping in the midst of destruction
that even when my story, my very name, conveys pain,
some attentive person will extend mercy,
let live bruised beauty
so I can grow unhindered,
draw in butterflies,
or just stand, defiant and beautiful in a June breeze.
soft whisker kisses
and delicate snuffling
on my nose, eyes, lips
with faint, most intimate
purring
vigorous edge and corner
rubbing on bedside table
and pile of books that slithers
to the floor with muted
thudding
deliberate stroll along headboard
to select, with care, which items
will be batted onto my head
and which will be sent
flying
soft thump as the bed is abandoned:
final stage has been triggered
silence long enough for me to drift
back to sleep, then unnaturally loud
sounds of moist mastication
and plastic, followed by
retching
objective achieved
I am up
Warming bodies fog the windows
by the coffee pot familiars chat
towels wrapped around their necks
the rising sun lights up our chin dips
a gym goer sports an all yellow outfit
dropped weights clang on the floor above
in the dark hall someone does pushups
we stretch luxuriously on yoga balls
our flying fish catching the light
I teeter on one leg a drinking crane
penned on a post-it a compliment
from a grateful workout student
“This body by Whit! Thank you!”
After changing into shirts and slacks
fitness buffs head out to early meetings.
under the acacia tree,
warming in the morning
sun, the stag lion
pandiculates under
burnishing African skies
hunger reminds him
he is alone, though
white-bellied
go-away birds
sing out from
the branches.
he rises, and feels
the earth respond,
though he is weak
and wounded, having
been cut in combat
he was the last of
his pride,
the rest having run
away, or
starved
he inches silently
through the indifferent grass,
compelled to hunt,
though little prey remained
soon, he would be too weak
soon, he would be the prey–
torn flesh and bone
under the acacia tree–
and the go-away birds
would sing
his song
just once more
At the age of reason
you ought to know better
is what I hear in the dim light
of confession…and then
clothed in white and given to show
I walk the plank stair
of communion
A little brother a baby sister
firetruck clang of Broadway
sleep between the spaces of heavy
truck and train whistle
traffic at the edge of my ear
The next year
a nun raps my fingers with a ruler
Ma&Aunty move away
floozy Esther brings forbidden
songs with her smoke & mirrors
I’m reduced to pleas
for a bicycle
And here I am at seven
caught in a Kodak still life
trying to see
what’s left & right & wrong
The Lebanese bakery
holds a case as long as a boat.
Inside swims baklava, bird’s nests,
a troop of kibbe, a flock of fatayer.
Among the fatoosh and malfoof,
a pool of baba ghanooj!
Thanks so much for the ride,
I’ll have the shish tawook.
I shuffle a tarot of words
to write papers for early release
of prisoners in my mind
I shuffle a tarot of words
to google driving directions
not knowing my destination
I shuffle a tarot of words
spinning salvation for others
but mostly for myself
I shuffle a tarot of words
that will spell out S.O.S
in language you can understand
I shuffle a tarot of words
that utter what stuck in my craw
when we parted.
I shuffle a tarot of words
into a closing argument
before sentence is pronounced
I cast cards on the ground
to illustrate the story
of what will happen next
