Knowledge stands in an enchanted wood,
studies the book of nature by life’s mysterious
glow. The world serpent cradles an egg
amid bones and dry leaves. Bright truth blinds
us into darkness, but Hermes’ snake-twined
staff promises this paradox has the power
to heal. The green man traces the veins
of every leaf with a tongue of pure fire.
A salmon is not a bird
but when I look up animal
medicine in
my two books, I fail
to remember
where each category is —
the flocks of feathered ones,
the scurry-stampede of mammals,
the waves of fish and other swimmers,
the swarms of insects in exchange with each other.
Circe
will not rely on these books.
She can not bother to
think too much of
the connotations
of her gifted curse.
Meanwhile I
keep feeling the fires
my lover made for us
those three nights,
the flames
flashing in my eyes,
establishing our memories.
The last time we shared salmon.
Text message
Good day, sir,
my name, for this text,
is Hallie.
You must
forgive me
for being so forward.
If I were drunk,
on yesterday’s wine,
I might understand my words.
I am drunk, instead,
on your fevered words
as I have never been before.
Your poetry tickles
my inner soul
as if it were a lover’s
lips,
tongue,
fingers.
I take it in
and I cherish
the feel of it inside me.
It fulfills me
in an inspiring
aphrodisiac way.
I thank you
for what you have done,
but I love my husband.
Do not text me back!
Mistakes flowed from fissures in reality
amounting into a nightmare made intractable when
resentful sentiments trumped all understanding.
Inhibitions disintegrated against that dreaded line that’s
always a threat to the searching heart,
no, I’m sorry, I don’t feel the same,
the crushing blow that often falls on us
over and over with no clear reasons given as to why.
Imagine never feeling important to anyone you care about,
not that it ever justifies hateful retaliation, it’s just
emotions can explode under enough pressures of disappointment.
There’s not a bone in my body proud of things I said that night;
all I really want to believe is that there’s nothing wrong with me.
I feel
slightly out of place
I do not know these people,
and to them I am only “Chris’s cousin”
They are kind
not rude at all
but I don’t seem to fit in
My Kentucky accent sticks out
and my salad feels suddenly out of place
amidst Dairy Queen and PB&Js
I do not know this place
the path is unfamiliar
and I have to follow the backs of
the strangers with names
I can no longer remember
but when I look up in the sky,
the clouds and the moon,
I recognize them,
They have not forgotten me
no matter where I am,
the sky sits unchanged,
and I feel held in this unfamiliar place.
The streets aflame with injustice
Curfews imposed do not negate
the fear instilled
It began as a funeral pyre
was hijacked
Turned into a molotov
of burning distrust
Let it burn
Scorched earth cleared
reveals a hardier crop
You have to peel back
the scabs from burnt skin
to allow for the healing
to begin
since you need to go out to eat
like your life depends on it
(or your death)
i serve you
through a mask
your humble middleman
of high cholesterol
you give me orders
like my other bosses
but you’re the one who pays my bills
every check i get
says this is not a check
but how much can all that matter
especially in a time like this
when i can’t help but wonder
if black lives really matter to you
between the concealed
thespian smiles
i can’t help but wonder
if i’d want to hurt you
for who you are
now i don’t mean to be judgmental
but i know where i am
now here’s your bloody
ketchup bottle
i’ll be right back
with your extra ranch
while i fetch you
more sweet tea
i can’t help but wonder
if the world also waits on you
to die so it can change
or maybe you’re a lovely person
but you can’t tell me
a good chunk of you
haven’t spent your lives
eating away
at someone else’s freedom
until there’s only bones
A friend challenged me, “Sheep Stink!”
A pen may stink. Sheep crowded like detainees,
forced to lie in feces, will not be pleasing.
But 1507, who shall remain unnamed
as food not friend, stands out among ewes:
smooth, muscled, sleek, her two eyes
set at just the right slant, gold-filled.
Like any beauty, she holds herself aloof,
evades, cocks her head,
slowly turns her elegant neck, cuts her eyes
my way, if only a bit, for my appreciation.
one day, out of the blue,
you will think of me.
you will look for me, and
i will be gone.
there is a map,
but i took it with me
for i did not wish to lose the way.
do not follow.
this road is for me
–only me–
and i will travel it to the end,
which is, i believe, just–there,
beyond that dim blue star
in Cassiopeia.
sometimes, the road is so very dark.
leavings of ancient travelers,
like unanswered questions, abandoned nearby
in the ditch, the high grass.
soon enough, i will near the exit.
did you know?
there are,
held tight in my fists,
entire worlds of memory–
laughter, touch, tears, love.
most of all, love.
perhaps this journey
is not leaving a place,
but finding a place.
i relax my fingers.
my feet leave the grass.
i am light, as the air.
the map, left beneath the Great Tree.
my eyes, wide.
