Genocide
Intent to destroy
In whole or part
A people
Deliberately annihilate
In whole or part
A life
Stealing
In whole or part
A future
I made two whole cakes.
I did not write a poem.
I am not sorry.
*I am actually so very sorry that I panic wrote a senryu.
[on account of being immunocompromised]
Orange candles burn today at the hands
of we who have heard or believe in
those faint whispers from behind the veil,
those conversations between gods.
The smoke spreads into the sky, meets
like-minded smoke, forms protective barriers
around our brothers and sisters fighting
where we cannot, plugging their ears,
barricading their nostrils and mouths,
keeping their eyes dry. It may not stop
the bullets, rubber or no, or the billy clubs
or horse hooves or plexiglass shields.
It may not stop the dancing police
or bloodied college kids or shrugging
indifferent passers-by concerned only with
the state of their cars. Sometimes communion,
though, is a form of protection. Sometimes
holding hands is barrier enough, even if
one hand is a fist raised in the air and the other
is a flame burning in my heart. The universe
whispers in smoke, speaks through our wax,
stands pregnant with blue irises, holds
its own fist high over its head, smoldering.
The door won’t open
again. That ear piercing
croak of the hinges
cries whenever I try.
It trimmers
and aches
‘til I let it
shimmey
off its track.
The hardware store
calls my name—
if only it weren’t for
that damned jammed frame.
If I were a ghost, what would I haunt?
For starters, the night light in the upstairs bath
at the end of the long hallway, where the floorboards creak
with every step. I’d set that fillament flickering
with Morse-like dots and dashes, which seep into
bleary minds, feeding into their dreams
images of secret prisoners, escape plans, and bloodshed.
The car radio, next, changing all the presets
to static, then hypnotic dance, where the occasional
ghostly wail wouldn’t be out of place.
If I were a ghost, I’d inhabit your tea kettle,
bringing it to a boil at unexpected
moments, on a stove
which wasn’t hot.
in a dream i’m in a basement
my daughter in dilemma is above
with her boyfriend—they’ve made too much
popcorn, “DADDY! WHAT DO WE DO?!”
i notice that’s not even her boyfriend
but a patron saint for all white boys
and—also—we’re at my mother’s but
like jake from state farm i say “you eat it?”
…i sip from a cup my coffee.
a metaphor for messes?
i sip. then i awake—a pup is on my pillow.
which is odd in of itself
because i own no pillows. not a single one.
the garden
tightly sown in need of thinning
chard radishes lettuce
i pick the largest leafs
the ones with holes
from larvae or mature bugs
i rescue the very young too
the tender shoots
I don’t want them to get
too big too old too bitter
I bend at the waist
because the knees don’t bend
without pain nothing works
without pain i think of correlations
am I bitter because I am old
bitter because of all the parasites
eating away at my id am i bitter
are my skin tags the same
as petrified gnarls on trees
are my moles and brown spots
like rust and knots
fingers cramp when i tug at weeds
that hang to the soil with tenacity
i think about a childhood poem
a brother from another father
used to taunt and tease
cathy cathy abernathy
how does your garden grow
with tinker toys and little boys
all in one straight row
i think about the garden
how things grow differently
tastes colors uses breeds
the demons that lurk in wait
the snakes the birds the bees
the laws that keep the balance
of nature survival fit fast
i think about humanity and laws
i wonder if nature will survive man
and if man will survive man
1960s,
the ”long hot summers”
when tinderbox cities
exploded
with black lives
that mattered,
still matter.
Now again
city after city,
again protests,
again police,
again brutality,
again
necks and knees
and point-blank range.
Again.
Those who do not know
history
are condemned
to repeat it.
Those who do
are condemned
to weep.
Again.
