There’s a red light on the washing machine
To show that the lid is shut tight
That very same reds’ on the light of the train
That circled the tree Christmas night.
The engine shot smoke puffs up in the air
From pellets one put in its stack
Its whistle was mournful – as all are today
As the train raced around the track.
These are the things that swirl in my head
As my clothes spin round the machine
I wonder if the thoughts would be different
If instead, the light had been green.
The door.
A sundial of heaviness reduces the angles.
Minute by infinite minute, shadows form in places of light,
and darkness closes in on the slivers that remain.
Cold.
Red.
Unweilding.
The molasses momentum moves it ever closer.
I.am.almost.done.
On my knees.
Scraping my nails slong the edges, grasping at splinters ticking away.
I.cannot.let.go.
Even if I wanted to, my heart is the jamb.
The heaviness surrounds me, contains me.
Shutting me out.
Then, a moment.
Sunlight aligns
and streams through the keyhole.
Splinters yeild.
I.am.unhinged.
There is freedom in a bird’s song
although it sits in a briar cage,
thorns interlocking ready to
shred colorful feathers.
The bird spreads its wings
growing tired of the cage,
willing to give everything to escape
leaps through the briars
making it through unscathed.
I stand and watch through
a wall of glass, the Sun shining
through into my sheetrock prison.
Hair whips across her face,
unpainted tears roll down ruddy cheeks.
Her dress dances around her small body
and the pink fabric catches the wind.
Barefoot,
the cement beneath her feet stinks of
sweat,
blood,
beer,
and curdled urine.
A cry escapes her lips.
In the grey landscape,
it gets lost in the wind.
Her pain is tossed through the city,
crawling around buildings
and indifferent people.
Her fingers are uncurled,
she has freed it!
The red balloon flees
Up
into the smoky sky.
Suddenly a beam of sunlight
illuminates the red heart
and the girl looks up.
Her face gleams in the brightness
and the wind begins to whisper to her:
there is always hope.
You enter the kitchen through the basement door.
I’m sitting at the table reading over half-written essays.
I look at the clock and see that it’s 7:43 AM.
I walk towards you, but I cannot hug you
because COVID won’t allow it.
Its undetectability and stealth attack change our marriage’s ancient ritual: saying hello.
You stand still, hold your arms out, and offer a sweet smile.
It’s your way to say, “Honey, I’m home.”
I wink and nod to say, “Good morning. I love you.”
After 18 years, words aren’t always necessary.
Only today, I wish they were.
I miss the days when we’d rush towards each other,
hold one another tight and laugh.
I miss kissing your lips.
I miss your lips kissing mine.
I miss feeling your face stubble scratch my soft cheek.
I miss the tiny twinge of sadness I’d feel when one of us let go.
I was usually the first to let go.
It’s been three months since we embraced when either of us entered the house.
We agreed that no touching until we shower is what’s best for our safety,
Safety we thought we had.
Safety we though we understood.
Safety we are privileged to have.
Safety that we understand differently now.
You leave more than I do.
You come home more than I do.
You respond first, and more than I do.
I walk past you to start the laundry you tossed into the machine.
Your uniform is bunched on one side of the agitator
as if it’s too tired to stretch itself for a proper wash.
I see this in you today, but I won’t say it aloud.
I reach for the detergent and splatter it on your clothes–
Dark blue soap soaks through your light blue shirt, oozes down that famous FDNY patch, and pools into your pants pocket–
You forgot to call so I’d know you’d be on your way home.
I want to put the soap in the machine properly, but it’s too late now and
it’s not important, because I forgot to unbunch your uniform anyway.
i think the next time
our eyes meet,
the awe in mine
may outshine yours.
i wonder everyday
if you’ll even recognize me
when i make it up
to front of the crowd.
and even when you dont,
i’ll still be the one
who’s voice you’ll hear
over everyone elses’,
and whether
my eyes reflect yours
in a way that feels
eerily familiar or not,
i’ll still do this
time and time again.
because even when
youre looking down on me,
and im looking up to you,
i cant help but imagine
you’ll be the one
who’s screaming my name
on this,
the first day
of Pride,
we must remember
Black
queer people
led the way.
we have
what we have
because of a
riot.
we will not
dishonor
their memory
by staying silent.
celebrate accordingly.
Won’t the Saints come Marching In?
Oh, won’t the Saints come Marching In?
Thank you for watching over us
but
we are in danger, some of us
can’t breathe (400 years or more), could not
sit at the counter almost yesterday —
We’ve been calling down The Better Angels:
please help with these righteous fires.
An Eternal Flame for progress
can not be manned,
it must
be divined.
Won’t the Saints come Marching In?
Oh, won’t the Saints come Marching In?
Oh, Lord, I want
to be
in that number …
Thank you for watching, for making clear
the present dangers, all of us
asking for breath (at least enough to play
the songs that got us through yesterday).
I learned about The Better Angels when
I called you, Mom and Dad, this spring:
“The robin tree branches
are growing into your bedroom window…”
my mother said.
(She used to teach piano, she used
to teach us this song:).
Won’t the Saints come Marching In?
Oh, won’t the Saints come Marching In?
Oh, Lord I want to be in that number …when
The branches have not been pruned:
no request for help (somehow?),
and no one seems able
to cut them down except
who my father calls The Better Angels.
after Catherine W. Carter
The only sense we make is where we come from:
the Hess branch a German vintage,
McCammons tribalizing Ireland’s greens;
how the Saylors arrived is no mystery, either.
Farmers they all became, eventually,
farmers who left their fields
until one daughter remained true to her trade,
if not her ancestral tag.
At the end of your life, have you chosen
what they carve in your stone? Brief title
that outlives the rest, no matter
where you started or as what.
Does the final plot make you a gardner at last?
