She plunged the dagger into my heart,
The dagger sank deep,
After the deed was done she left,
Leaving me alone and in pain,
I tried and struggled to pull the dagger out,
Nothing,
I looked to those around me for help,
silence,
The dagger remained in my chest,
Hurting with every beat,
Hopefully someone will pull it out for me,
But the dagger’s damage is done,
It’ll leave a scar.
I know that you tied that bandana around your face, pulled your hair into a bun, and stepped out of your house ready for the rebellion.
As we marched past the cops in riot gear, you let the rage boil your blood.
You centered yourself in the crowd, and screamed at the top of your lungs.
You had expected everyone to listen, as they always do.
When we looked at you with urgency in our eyes, you seemed confused.
It didn’t make sense to you why no one was joining in, so you tried again, louder this time.
I was ready to scream in your face.
I turned around ready to yell “how dare you?”
To explain that it is not your place to do things that you will not receive punishment for.
But then, someone much more smart and calm than I am yelled
“say her name”
And we drowned out your voice with the response:
“Breonna Taylor”
clock tocks tocks tocks
chimes one two three four five
Rudy croons a pre-dawn cock-a-doodle-do
Carolina wren frets over nestlings
parula ululates up the scale
as sun hums golden hope
into morning’s corner of the sky
There’s a rusty windmill
cranking and creaking
to every tired exhale
of a cool early June day
The old farm is a memory
worn out weathered wood
the haunted shade of yesterday
hangs like a wet blanket
from a clothesline
Rustic and riddled with splinters
the whole place is peeling like paint
worn out at the edge of town
barbed wire fence ready to kiss flesh
rosy red with rust
All the tired memories hang on loosely
as the wind whispers its fields
barbed wire fence waits on tender flesh
and an old rusty windmill marks the days
Pap visits a lot these days
looking over the unplowed
garden plot shaking his
head, disappointed his
garden is but a memory.
Nanny visits in the winter
making sure everyone is staying
warm, she stops by her mother’s
bird feeder for a quick snack,
and sings her song as she flies away
We begin. Floating through the streets
Beneath the fake blues of spring skies,
Plans unfold, shaking out their aches
And shakiness, blooming into the first
Hugs of the season, bad for the lungs,
Imperative for the soul. A badge pokes
Her collarbone. Under other conditions
She would poke back, but unexpected
Connection is the purpose, or one of
The purposes, and things certainly
Could have gone much further
South, for sure. Night settles
In misty increments, dying
Light gives way to hazy
Indigo. The sun slips
Through a crack in
A wall of windows,
Not looking back at
The unfolding scene,
Taking the long way
Around, sizzling and
Sighing, there is nothing
It has not seen in its time.
I keep a note on my phone titled
Mama Wants to Do.
On this list;
Sourdough
Pickles
Pickled Onions
Sauerkraut
Preserved Lemons
Lemon Balm Syrup
Ginger Lemon Syrup
Mint Syrup
Blackberry Shrub
Vanilla Extract.
Little bullet points you can press
to make a little checkmark,
so you know you’re actually
accomplishing something.
A simple little lie
to fill my time
and busy my hands.
I feed my sourdough starter
once a week
a cup of the best freshly ground wheat
and a half a cup of water
and I watch her
bubble and grow
and I feel like i’m nurturing
something.
I feel like I conquered something
real
just making bread rise
with gluten and water
and microbes
and what passes for patience.
Three days of waiting, folding dough,
timing in half hour increments,
tied to the kitchen
by a Mama’s willing apron strings.
Bread as a means of avoidance
of what Mama Actually Wants to Do
becauses Mama is afraid
that all she is
is a Mama.
I started writing because
I thought I was…
I was told
I was good at it.
But with age time got away
from me–
Words tumbled around
never striking the page
just right.
Rip after rip
it seemed simpler
to let my pen collect
dust.
I scribbled
again when my peace
was stolen. Replacing
physical movement with pen strokes.
Being brave once
more, sending my work
out to the voulters–
Returned encased in gold.
and so ive become
the hospital for broken homes
i welcome you in
with open arms
as i provide for you
a sanctuary
for the lost and the lonely
but i cant help but feel
so sad that
we were not
all created equal
