Wonder
there are days
that I don’t know
why
I try so hard
to get something
out
pulling from
belly button
leaving a
deep purple hurt
at the center
of the chest
but I keep going
unwinding
digging
and confused
as to why
I’m not going
numb
no one told you, did they?
that it was all over
that the fat lady had sung
that there was no post-credits scene
no one showed you, did they?
those signs and wonders
those weekend forecasts
those unsurprised pundits
no one listened, did they?
these songs you sang
these Bible verses you recited
these warnings of good and evil
no one, but one
that one
was me–
a no one
for six years,
you bought the same
milk and sugar–
the organic kind
the doctor recommended
to fight the disease–
you still buy it,
even thought she’s dead
even now,
you still spend five dollars
for a half gallon of milk
and i see it as an ode to her–
an “in memory” of sorts
or maybe it’s a safeguard
so you don’t lose us
like you lost her
our relationship
is tense–both of us
anxious and scared
of the other’s reaction
my memory
of you consists of
strung together moments:
waking up with a cough,
the fireplace roaring from
the living room and i
can hear you moving about
since my coughing woke you
already and you bringing me
a small, clay mug filled
with piping hot black tea
sweetened with clover honey
snacking at a Wendy’s
corner booth with the
sunset clearing away
on the horizon
and you dip your hot
fries into your chocolate
Frosty and i snarl
have you tried it?
and i reluctantly did–
indulging on the salty sweetness
i see you as a mourning
father–every breath
step, and action a
forward motion in grieving
and maybe that’s how we cope?
living our lives,
grieving in tandem
our souls solemnly separate
in a lonely mantra
Blossoms in the sun
a magenta monochrome
floral beauties shine
Scorched with sunlights touch
pirouettes upon the wind
roots found on the farm
I remember sitting by mother’s canvas
watching as her hand etched worlds into the void
banishing catastrophe with color,
facing doubt with determination.
She’d play jazz over the stereo
Listen to bold brass
accompanied by brushstrokes.
I wonder whether the flowers she painted
were concealed in the cacophony?
Her easel has borne the weight
of an abandoned child for years now,
wooden arms weary, determined not
to disappoint. Father’s work holds strong.
Perhaps it’s time for the both of us
to nourish our crafts anew.
when they say, “Stop I’m Blushing –
Let Me Pink About It!”
and barely pause before
Such a Fuschia-n of Colors erupts
from the stalks. They worry
Nothing Rhymes With Lilac
and need to be comforted, call themeselves
Lavendarling in a bulbous coo,
singing the Sock It To Me Blues.
These Cotton Candy Speech Bubbles
stain the mouth, sweet garden of vowels.
One Mississippi,
Two Mississippi,
Your fingers slipping
Out of my hand
Your footsteps
Going farther away
I wonder why you built
The wall you did
And what it’s made out of.
Three Mississippi,
Four Mississippi,
Your voices echos in the air
And your memory lives
In photographs
I want only
One Mississippi
To hear you say
My name or hear you say
You won’t leave,
When you run.
Color me bruise, my
teeth are tired. Old bones,
new meat, sharp steel
equally comfortable in hand.
There is
an itch, a-tingle in the velvet
of antlers stretching up, blood-fed bone
grown only to be shed. We are
trying not to turn teeth to so much grist,
grinding canines to sleek. We are
honing
swirling our nails at the whetstone
and it sounds curiously
like pen-scratch on paper.
