You are crumbling
A monument once so sturdy
Falling to pieces
The deterioration I can’t help but noticing
The crippling of your hands
The slipping of your tongue
The static of your brain, once infrequent now overtaking your thoughts
You won’t remember this conversation
There’s already so many that have faded
Nonexistent into the void that you are slowly becoming
We mention who’s to blame
But you wave our worries away
Unable and unwilling to accept what you are becoming
The groves we wandered through
in our youth
have all begun to bleed into
one another,
and I no longer know whether
the brook
is safe to wade in or if we’ve stepped
past safety,
into the outstretched arms of private
property, where
two kids threatened to fill our bodies
with holes,
said we’d never be heard from again.
Back then,
I still hadn’t learned how to use my voice,
didn’t know
that the burning in the back of my throat
was shame
begging to break the shackles of silence.
I’m indebted
to that spitfire savior, the firecracker
that stood
face-to-face with fear, danced
with danger,
and showed us how to navigate a world
of wayward woodlands
and ill intentions.
I am writing
this poem because
I want a catalpa tree in it.
Not because
catalpa trees are stunning—
with their immense twisty trunks and branches,
broad green leaves—heart-shaped,
clusters of white flowers with tiny orchid-like throats.
The Arbor Foundation says of catalpas:
“How could you not
stop
to take it in.”
No, I want to put a
catalpa tree
into this poem because of
the sound it makes when you say it:
catalpa tree.
Those hard sounds—that C that T that L—
Did I mention the dangling seed pods—smooth pale green
longer than a giant green bean?
Better than those long lengthy mysterious seed pods—
the popping sound of “pah” at the end,
only one vowel used 3 times, pronounced differently
as the word moves forward to the right,
rather than moving upward toward th sky.
Ending with the earthy hum: treeeeeee
Oh say it—slowly, whisper it—now, cut into it—be LOUD
Catalpa tree!
a field of soybeans
laid out before me
the creek twisting
through the trees
i have grass
in my pocket
and a singular clover
and a dried up leaf
it’s innocent,
care-free, and beautiful
in the heat of the garden
my gut chirps up towards me to say
“surely this must be the worst of it”
i pull another weed with sore ripe fingers
and whisper back
“even if it isn’t, we’ll be fine”
i repeat myself so often,
i’m not sure if it’s become mantra or delusion.
i’m going to be sick i’m going to be sick i’m going to be sick
don’t picture it don’t picture it don’t picture it
we’re fine we’re fine we’re fine we’re fine
the ship feels different down here
no windows, stale air,
heat from the engines,
the stink of men who bathed
three months ago
we’ve not seen the captain
since November
reckon Thanksgiving and Christmas have long passed,
by now–who knows?
hard to remember fresh air,
blue skies, wind,
the sound of birds,
clean skin, food that is not
spoiled, laughter
truth is the assholes above us–
we hold their lives in our hands,
but they don’t give a fuck about us
on the lower decks
most of us, covered in burns,
mostly deaf from the machines,
eyes red and burning,
clinging to some woman we knew once,
long gone from everywhere
but our brains
not sure we’re human anymore
feel more like a part of the machine,
each of us a single cog, not worth
a halfpenny
i had a dog, once–
and a home with windows
and a wife
one day, in a foul mood,
i kicked that dog
the look he gave me–
weak, defeated
that’s me now
He never fit with
misfits but at least
they let him tag along.
Academics always thought
him rash, radical. Radicals
figured him a redneck.
Rednecks reckoned he
was highfalutin, while the
well heeled held him
as a common sod.
Religious folk scorned
his hedonistic joy, but
the party crowd
considered him a prude.
He never meant to be rude.
He did what he could.
He wondered how they
felt, being understood.
among those sleeping
half-drowning from
the deceit delivered
lungs so full
that they move as
trees heavy with leaves
in a weak wind
knee-deep and mired
in the filth
it’s hard
to remember
what it was
like before
but even
what it was like
still wasn’t
any better
it was just
easier
to ignore
the poverty
the anger
and ignorance
We are at a knobby-kneed crossroads-
sharp elbows and words,
shaggy hair and creaky voice.
Ghostly glimmers of the former child
the sweetness faded,
determination waxing.
Your games are serious, planned, precise-
innocence lingers,
you are uncertain, but strong.
An insight both profound and naive
puts me in such awe,
so proud of who you will be.
