I cry beside
the dishwasher.
The comforting
mechanical noise
drowns me out,
so I don’t scare
the kids, and the
periodic whirring
and swishing of
water feels normal
like any other day:
the endless dishes,
the humming
backdrop
of the fridge,
the cluttered counters.
But this isn’t
any other day,
and it isn’t normal,
and I’m not sure how
to make myself okay.
We are not okay –
the country
and the world
are not okay.
I wish I could speak eloquently
But I was born tongue tied.
It’s a shame to have a voice that shakes.
Especially when you have so much to say.
I’m tired
I don’t really feel like writing a poem
I stood with my community tonight
And marched for Black Lives
It’s 2020 and the fact that nothing’s changed is disgusting
I’ll continue to use my voice
I’ll continue to march
No justice,
No peace
My better half’s a painter:
I sculpt echoes against an encrypted palimpsest;
We live in a house of mirrors,
star-strewn serpents’ scales refracting boughs & flowers;
redolent stars impressed in titian, fuschia,
jonquil, crocus, columbine orange;
marauding freckles forever heard and heeded
amongst snug fireside chanties floating
soft and sweet as crackling incense,
signals dithering, dense as shoals of lurid krill,
a shoulder slanting casts in gasping reflections.
the youthful scent of sunscreen
while the sun peaks out
from the clouds
the smell of honeysuckle
as the ground
moans under our feet
there is a peace
that brows through
like the smell of the pines
it comes from the spirits
living in the trees
and the birdsong
the day ends
with pizza,
ice cream, slushees,
and barefoot dancing
in the street
there is something
unexplainable about these days
maybe it’s the high of the joy
a lonely longing
or the future
thank you, to whosever eyes
just graced mine. as you know
we are all still learning to love
without our mouths.
who do you think of
when you see a stranger?
my amenable mother is behind
me, her big kind eyes
crossed only a little
can i just know who
else stops for the
produce rain, rests
their hands on their
thighs with a bag full of
greens and
listens to the thunder?
I arrive at the skate park before the abatement
of real skaters’ hangovers. I sweep away debris
that might sprawl a teen on concrete. I throw
away sandwich wrappers and empty beer cans.
By ten o’clock, guys show up who flip boards
like coins, and that’s when I flop my board back
in my Corolla and drive home. You see, I’d rather
break my wrist in private, which is what I think
I did last week, but haven’t confirmed with x-rays.
Knee pads and elbow pads and a helmet would
probably be a good idea, but I’m not in the mood
to afford those. My only wrist aches a little. I can
still push a broom, and there are brooms to push.
