likes to hold my hand
and tell me
that he loves me
because I ask him all the time
if he really means it.
When we fight, he
when I put myself down,
and tells me, one more time,
Living in town didn’t suit her, rug rats
Crowded every square inch of space,
No room to breathe or stretch or think.
Neighbors too close, yard too narrow.
Daniel Boone said it first, elbow room!
Farm acres wide and empty, lots of places
To dig a footer, cistern and post holes.
She began to nag, he resists those graces.
Dollar bills in short supply, posed a problem
With the dream. Heads together plot a scheme.
Pap might supply the land and fence for free,
Our bare hands with one aging carpenter agree
To go the extra mile, fill in the gaps, cut costs
Now more reasonable to something possible.
Corners cut, substitutes made, boards laid,
As a house begins to rise, honest, handmade.
Brick cost way too dear, deep red paint filled
In, showed fine. Most were fooled by the look
From a distance, who could tell or care one whit.
New folks on the way to the road by the brook.
Pap would say if the door is closed to you,
Change course and cut you another way.
Two doors, one closed, one pushed open
Because hard work set to and won the day.
Wonder how many other houses along this way
Are what did happen in spite of those that say,
It is too dollar dear, can’t be done, give it up?
Never shall we know, the silent myth of this road.
You used to say
If you weren’t sweating
It wasn’t really work.
Made me read books
On how to manage money.
Wrote poems
About your father’s love.
I sweat through months
Of cleaning up your mess.
Still haven’t figured out
How to pay off
All your debts.
And your father
Was an asshole too.
Speaking relics into existence
life breath resurrected
and the nazis have returned.
Some ancient site was unearthed releasing the curse
that makes liars look you in the eye
and deceive with confidence.
A toddler’s mentality
denying what was witnessed
who has our fate at the wretched fingertip.
I felt great already
and our short comings are sold to us
just be happy
and if not it must be someone else’s fault.
Internment camps are on the way
for the flood of hungry desperate humans
who would do anything else
if they had a choice.
Logic no longer prevails
double blind research becomes
just your opinion man.
Disappointment that in someway
the news outlets of the world conspired
to disagree with the real truth
that changes day by day.
When my mind becomes cluttered
I must clean it out
one cardboard box at a time.
You see my mind doesn’t have a local goodwill or salvation army
where you can drop off all the things
that are no longer useful to you
and forget all about them.
My mind has a storage unit.
My storage unit is just good intentions and promises I forget about
until dust settles on them and I can no longer distinguish one from the other.
My mind has attics and basements
full of emotions and moments
trying to escape
sometimes all at once.
There is no panic room in which I can hide in
who designed this place anyways?
I am a hoarder of memories
both good and bad
please do not touch that one
or this one
or that one way off in the corner.
I might need them for later
though later never comes.
Once with a boyfriend
I started a game
of rock, paper, scissors, slap
that only lasted two rounds because
when it was his turn to slap me he
really slapped me
And I stood there blinking, skin burning
unsure if this counted when I had
offered him my cheek
You told me the story of how he punched you
In the arm, too hard, coming down
Slapped across the face, play fighting early on
Doesn’t count because he said so
Doesn’t have to count if I don’t want it to
My mother taught me
If he ever hits you
there is no second time because
you leave, that fast
But now I have to wonder
how many seconds he got
til it counted
The questioner didn’t want an answer
but a platform
to show off for his Sugar Mana,
the blonde dripping diamonds.
His rambling question to the panel
of poets announced the couple’s passion
to provide poetry to healthcare
providers to prevent burn-out.
He was seeking cheers.
Isn’t this a dynamite
idea? We all looked at each other
blank.
You were young once
and fluff
But now you are concrete
steel
marble
In this, the first year of her adult life,
she towers over me, begs for water
to support all her fruits and roots.
She waves uncommonly strong
in a wind or rain. She loves the sun, too,
she loves the garden growing in view,
she craves conversation and touch.
I love her so much.
