–the awareness of the smallness of your perspective
Yesterday the astronomer told me
there are 250 billion stars
( + or – 150 billion) in the Milky Way.
Today the microbiologist told me
there are more bacteria in my gut
than stars in the Milky Way.
I stand between the two.
The clouds, stretching
across the horizon. Filtering
brilliant pink and fading
sunlight. Dimming
and giving the moon
sweet visibility. The stars,
such beauty,
what a reminder!
Like every drop on
the tulips coming into
bloom after bearing
the storm and the thunder,
like the maple catching
fire with the warmth
of spring and burning
a loud red, all of these
small and lovely things
show me
to the heartbeat of the Earth
once more. And distract me
from all the lifetimes
I wish were mine.
Our great rite began
Fertility ritual
Beneath hemlocks bough
Dual female vigor
Ecstasy entwined coven
Scents of myrrh rising
Parabolic act
White birch athame thrust to
A vacant chalice
Lips tasted of mint
As wine filled her rose quart cup
Nightshade graced her skin
Sowing season sings
With passion after sunset
Symbolic seeds grew
A mothers forest
Bare witness to a full moon
Rite on earth alters
i.
you are drunk and dumb
and scared of me some
but it’s the curves in the road
that will snatch you in their black
loom against the sky, it is the silhouette
of twilight purple mountain air, the humid hanging of it, the dew before it’s dew
the rank aliveness that will reach its cragged bone fingers
into your stick shift and knock the gears of your guts out and you are swept off
your feet like i wanted to be at every junior high school
dance but it would smite you with a jagged dead kiss
against the rugged hillrock and here i am trying to keep you
from having to feel all that and you say what are you what are you
waiting for?
time
to
pass
ii.
i will not kiss another misanthrope.
my throat knows the sputtery taste of ash
well what you think i don’t know you think
i don’t smell the same stink? did we not
meet in the same fetid alley? shut up
and know there is something after
ragnarok more interesting than this
i am fixed on; ‘behold the great rondure,
the cohesion of all, how perfect.’
When we found you
thrashing in the brambles,
feather-clad neck noosed
in fishing line,
I wonder if you felt
anything other than fear.
Forgive me,
I tried to make
the operation go smoothly-
I am a novice surgeon,
you, the protesting patient.
I am unfamiliar with the map
of your fragile body,
the architecture of wing and bone
is foreign to me.
When you disembarked from
our ramshackle med bay,
I hope you were deaf
to the siren song
that ensnared the both of us.
You won’t replace this piece of furniture
Just keep on using this same over-stuffed
Camelback Haywood-Wakefield (circa 1960)
It’s about the the only thing your mom salvaged
From her first marriage but nostalgia
Is not at play you say, it’s the principle
That a thing that’s finely crafted should
Be used for the entirity of its life. Fine
with me I say when I come in covered
with stick-tights and cockleburs, put
My feet up to rest after a wild trekkin’
And eat a box of crackerjacks. (Must say
though we have sown some mighty fine oats
On these old cushions). A photo of you at six
In your underwear sitting on the sofa
(Then covered in gold, green and white stripes!)
Waiting for your mom to iron your dress
For school picture day shows your steadiness,
Your eyes fierce like you were riding in a wagon
through the tall grass of the high plains
I admire your most recent photograph,
sprawling lanky limbs across
an outdoor patio chair
in a borrowed dress, skin dewy and golden,
hair loose like waves of wheat,
eyes gazing off thinking about
whatever it is 13 year old minds think about
but I don’t see you.
I see the three year old who threw
tantrums on the lawn of the preschool when
I pinned you in the grass to
keep you from running into the parking lot
wrangled you into the van,
slid the door shut and tried to breathe.
I see the one little head raised up in the dark room
refusing to nap on her mat when
there were adults to talk to nearby.
I see the shadow by my midnight bed
crying because the silver unicorn blood
in the forest near Hogwarts was
burning her brain all night long.
I hear your higher voice asking questions
on the way to the school we drove to together
at 6:45 am for three years-
friendship, sexuality, racism, history, my traitorous boobs.
I relive telling you about Santa,
you would not stop asking but were
quick to anger when we answered.
The whole holiday house of cards came
down in 24 hours.
I forgive you all over again for
throwing up hot dog in my slippers,
running from me in the frozen foods and
laughing like it was hilarious,
hours of sleep loss,
stretched skin, sore nipples,
crippling post-partum tears,
small untruths about borrowed earrings and
brushed teeth.
You are perfect in my eyes but
you don’t look like that photograph.
Your face appears
in bed with me but
I’m not afraid
You’re a memory
out of focus
but familiar
For a moment
I forget the days
between then and now
and how impossible it is
for your body to be
next to mine
You’re a brief wish
The illusion
of comfort
Holding me
When loneliness whispers
I’m back
Three months now in self-isolation and we’ve done it all.
Cleaned the closets. Got the garden in shape.
Learned to order groceries online. Finished 48 crossword puzzles.
Signed petitions. Mastered the remote to our smart TV.
Inhaled each magnolia blossom as it opened and died.
Eaten so healthy-at-home that we’ve each lost ten pounds.
Endured a two hour virtual graduation party.
Discovered we liked spending more time together.
Eventually got on each other’s nerves.
Slid in to the lethargy that grows from an excess of intimacy,
from helplessness, seclusion, heat and humidity.
Outside, we visit friends on porches and in yards
at a six foot distance. Strain to hear voices from behind the masks.
We come home and for a moment forget
that we are permitted to be closer than six feet.
We take country rides, still on one tank of gas from months ago, when our
Kroger points knocked the price down to a shocking 59 cents a gallon.
Drive by our favorite restaurants, reminisce about lamb rogan josh and tom kah.
Pass our old movie and music haunts. This is too hard.
Needing Something To Do, I suggest the car wash.
Remember, I said, when I traded in my old used car for a newer used car
and after the transaction was done and the bells and whistles explained,
the nice sales guy, almost a friend by then, said “Linda. One more thing.
Don’t let this car get like the one you brought in here. Wash it once in a while.”
And I have, thinking of his affection for cars and his tolerant grin.
In truth, I have always liked the washing cars thing, starting with my best friend’s brother and his ‘57 Chevy that he allowed us kids to wash and polish in the driveway.
I loved going to carwashes, too. Such an uncomplicated activity.
So, we head in to Clean Sweep, and maybe I am the last person in this town to discover
a car wash with colored LED lights? First vibrant purple (makes my heart leap),
then cool blue and green, blazing red, while the funny fingers slap noisily
against the windows and doors, and water gushes in waves. I consider
whether the rainbow of colors has some political intent or if it is just car-wash eye-candy, no extra charge.
Unable to march, unmotivated to write or cook yet another healthy meal,
this has made my day.
Something to do. I am a teen with too much time on my hands, done talking to everyone I know. Waiting for life to happen.
the better days are without music
like clean, impressionless sheets from the end of the notepad
no soundtracks hijacking my thoughts with nostalgia
cloaking today under an outdated overcoat
no melody forcing me to the dancefloor
shoving my mood against it without my consent
no lyrics manipulating the ouija board
spelling an invitation to ghosts for company
the better days I hear the present
and recognize the rhythm
of my breath and heart
that outlived his
