untitled
if i die
funeral
I really wish I could wake
every day as the best
version of me
where I wouldn’t run
by drinking
irish whisky so much
that my teeth go numb
I wish I could write the
right words to unwind
my guts
from that white-hot center
where I’ve dug and dug and dug
because that’s what I was told
to do
I
wish
I
could
wake up
one day
free of
that goddamned
silhouette
of her
that got into my
DNA
and changed the sequences
to self destruct
breathing deeply enough
to rustle the mold off my ribs,
i pour a glass of cold water,
pluck the pit from a cherry,
and make a long phone call.
“we hope for peace in others because we hope for peace in ourselves”
she tells me through the static-
the voice is familiar but
more honest than the one i’m used to.
i think She might be Me,
but from somewhere further and wiser than
where I am now.
throws itself into hard conversations
even if it feels like
throwing porcelain into a blender
let the white fragility shatter, grind, diffuse
be the Bull in the China Shop
and don’t apologize for making a mess
of an already messy system
is a light if not a flame
Have you ever
been flying free
wheels spinning
streamers wagging
come to a sudden
Stop
to skid,
project,
concrete skinning your face?
Deceit, it burns so
and you are
willowy paper,
crumpled receipt,
spent ash.
Find solace in
Blackberry bourbon
stolen last year
from his Rendezvous ride
found recently amoung
sketchbooks, journals.
These words,
his mistress,
double-dealing drunks,
couple cohabitating.
Don’t take it with you
get back on
toss it from the bars
pitch crookery into the dusk.
As midnight approaches I realize
my poem has been written before
by Whitman who published his own work
again and again, celebrating himself
as lover and poet of nature.
W. C. W. wrote the same poem as
a memo on a refrigerator,
mastering the line, short lines
to control how to read his work.
Cummings wrote the same poem
when rhyme was declared dead.
He hid it, etcetera, creating his own
made up puzzle words.
Poets laud a total poem, a pure one.
giving their all,
considering the same elements
of the craft, and draft
the same poem,
aware that there can be
no pefect crime.
I stand in a field
of purple cone flowers.
I climbed the steep hill
behind our house
to arrive here
watching butterflies
drink nectar
and flutter
from flower to flower,
and gazing at the
dappled sunlight
cast over the blooms
on the edge
of the forest.
I am hypnotized
by their beauty.
I look down upon
our yard
and garden
and my husband
tying tendrils of beans
up on poles, the hills
casting long shadows
down around him,
but he kneels in
the one patch of
sunlight
glowing golden
in a sea of
deep green.
That house doesn’t seem to have
aged a day, stuck somewhere in the limbo
before I was born.
We’d explore the basement, placed
squarely in between your professions
of teacher and taxidermist,
not quite sure whether we would
learn something new
or unearth the unburied.
The world down there coated in dust
and disarray. The piano with dead keys.
The discarded knick-knacks and remnants
of a forgotten time. I fell in love with a
rotary-dial telephone we exhumed.
Remember the quiet mechanical whir
as it returned home after each number.
Sometimes I wonder if the wires
could get crossed, if I could call
those still breathing
in the year that house is still trapped.
