Lightbulb
And just like that
my love is gone
faster than one could
flip a switch,
but not because
the bulb is old
or burnt out,
I just finally let go
of the rusty rim
I was attached to.
I let myself
unscrew.
When you wrote,
“I always wonder how you think of me now.”
I should have replied,
“I don’t.”
But my heart hoped
for a different result.
I bared it all
raw and unfiltered.
Again
my output returned void.
Einstein was right…
data never lies.
The shivering concoction
withdraws from its own coldness
pure opulence,
rubbing against the residue left
abandoned to the furthest corners of my mouth.
Dried and flaking
giving up to fall into a pool of its own eternity.
Mother shares the tainting.
Till the rotten soap is stuck under my fingernails.
breaching the sheltered skin
incapable of being cleaned under streams of denial
but still potent
enough to scrape the rubble off my mother’s wounded body.
Still, it leaves behind its markings and
blueprints for another destroyed city.
Another war is waged
father’s pride clings to his fists in desperation
the familiar strikes of slurred thunder
rocking us backward
Faster and harder
till even the dog no longer shows sympathy.
She is always wringing the bruises from her body
Consuming them with her bowed head
It is a miracle; Her rebellion
A fickle dream
Grow too tall to see him
A chin always upturned
find a permanent haven in the ceilings
Grow taller than him
so you never have to see him again.
But there is no retribution,
revenge, redemption.
only a hefty weariness
mounting pressure to forget
A near-empty glass collecting more dust.
A few drops left untouched
Finally a hushed order comes through
Finish it.
So there is nothing left.
Your hands hold life
in the shape of spring flowers
foretelling the seasons ahead.
Your hands hold light
in the shape of knowing
darkness always passes.
And your eyes hold cities
burning to be forgotten
if you ever leave this world.
Peach mushrooms mumble
her first name from the damp
womb of pine & birdsong, where
in early spring we tossed
her soft gritty
ashes like wedding rice
at the final exit. She is now
membranes, quick living
pinks, improvization
of mountain laurel, spicebrush
& sweetshrub. My husband wants
to go this way. Throw me
to the green, he says. I will
return as red maple & silverbell
& when autumn arrives, I will
become the glow-yellow
of witch-hazel, lighting your way.
True is only part of it, in this search for
–recalculating–
path to that person you thought you were going to be.
slow
–if we’d resented less that Holler Store mess of a camp counseler who tried was–trying–to teach us natural navigation, would we have learned that
moss does not care about north or south, but thrives on moist surfaces, that
our first glances in lost woods are just clickbait starter kits that keep us in the weeds, that
–recalculating–
stop
handsy brambles have copped their share of scratches –
shallow
and gouges?
so
many
Imagine at the way the light hits the trees.
Find the ways water fell to its knees.
Became soft lichen altars not
unlike relics.
These are familiar temples whose steps you’ve kissed a million times before.
Look again.
If the water would have to fight
so
hard
to cling to the cragging surfaces
if only shadow could make that shrine so hallowed and hard
look away. it’s familiar too, I
know it is.
And without even looking back, you know just to think of it your skin will forever taste of salt.
I know, too, you’ve found your north.
I aspire
to knowing glances
Returned in kind
Sly smiles
And careful
coincidental
Timing
Heathcliffe
Mr. Rochester
Mr Darcy
You
Tortured men chasing
Wild independently minded women
Cathy
Jane
Elizabeth
And me.
What lights his eyes
tiny sparks distant stars
that wink, fade
their flare snapped shut, elapsed
before ths busy passer-by notices, the hasty
jogger with deadlines, tracing a circuit.
Public opinion is of little regard, a sparrow’s
crumb tussled over by the common
birds huddled in their natty stripes, jaunty
chocolate caps askew.
Only the shadows that fall
like night whisper his fame
to the curled leaves resting beneath
the park bench where he sits,
those lined stories retold
of J. Black, Jack-of-all-
trades, master-of-
whatever, nothing
memorable except this
deft evening, desultory
applause, momentary fame
as the moon becomes
witness to it all.
I sat at the piano
In the morning shade of gray
Had a cup of coffee
Starting out my day
While sitting there relaxing
A spider joined me there
Hung in front of my face
Had fallen from my hair
It swung half an arch
From a web that he had spun
I stopped playing piano
Cause I wasn’t having fun
That was it – just too much
Didn’t want to seem rude
But he interrupted morning
Played havoc with my mood
I put him on some paper
I had lying about
Opened up the back door
And then I threw him out!
