Heart Sits Heavy
What a sodden wool
heart sits heavy
mid-level of
my chest. Any
other organ seems
made of styrofoam
catching drippings
like A sad bucket.
Let me seep.
Let this dense
fabric slowly release
its own weight.
What a sodden wool
heart sits heavy
mid-level of
my chest. Any
other organ seems
made of styrofoam
catching drippings
like A sad bucket.
Let me seep.
Let this dense
fabric slowly release
its own weight.
I visit,
walk the long hallway
past the walkers and wheelchairs,
past the nurses bright with cheerfulness.
I bring chocolates to start off right.
Then we talk about politics, religion,
the meaning of life. We agree
to disagree about some things.
Sometimes heatedly,
but it is better, you say,
than listening to TV,
or gossip about neighbors
you no longer remember.
You do not remember much anymore,
except the past. And see little,
except what’s inside.
A lifetime of memories and some regrets.
But in the end, grace and forgiveness
and not just a little stubbornness.
corn fields remind me of graveyards.
the stalks and roots
reach deep around coffins,
biting into cured wood.
the yellow fruit distracts
from granite headstones,
bearing inscriptions
i would rather forget.
corn fields reek
of broken cherubs
cement benches
and memories
i allow to gray
in the back of my mind.
The euclid speedway holds me
and studies my gold face
to see if I am old enough to kiss you.
It sounds like a steel coaster and
a smear of screams indivisible elemental
rushing up to Mom
waving! Hi! Let’s people-watch we have tickets for food
you can stuff your face today is
the day come on today is the day
and everything your belly can’t hold is puke
and everything it shouldn’t is just the price of a good time
a kingdom of fear
and of no danger
and of we-have-your-epi-pen.
Axiom:
My favorite ride is the tallest.
Proposition:
You don’t scream because it lifts you legs dangling or
because it drops you but because you learn
your body is passed shrugging and feckless through every instant.
It’s killing me I’m sure
but who isn’t
Lately the crickets keep me company
We drink, from the same glasses
wet and broken but
It’s better to take your licks,
the poison’s in every cup.
An old friend burned sage
then folded my hands in hers
and told me that years ago she could not leave either
and slept on her husband’s grave for nine nights.
At the grave after dark, I fell asleep,
unaware of the cold,
deaf to coyotes.
I think I have slept for three years
on that dirt,
have swallowed ash,
have wrapped myself in sackcloth
wrung out and hung to stiffen in winter sun.
You folding my hands now in yours reminded me of
the comfort of quilts,
the sweetness of an apple,
the relief of rain in summer.
Each name shall be unset.
the shell shall unset it
and remove it from the environment.
Unsetting shall not be considered an error.
The unset shall support the Base Definitions.
Note that unset should not be
misinterpreted.
Unset the functions
favor the standard
retain historical practice.
The System used one name
without options
and there was no confusion.
—
Found poem (erasure) from the Linux Man Pages.
Complete text at:
https://man7.org/linux/man-pages/man1/unset.1p.html
We turned America off and on again
But the system still malfunctions
Keyboard locked
Monitor displays nonsense
Feedback grating from the sound system
Is it time to reboot
Restore to the original factory setting
Have we done too much alteration to the code
Will we need to reinstall each program in turn
To locate the malware that led us to this critical point
Perhaps we will need to install new programs or patches
To address the problems we have begun to acknowledge
Or will we face the final reckoning
That this is not a software problem at all
And no tinkering with the system will save us
No, this is not a happy poem
Nor one filled with love
It is a deeper look into
Where self doubt springs from
It starts with, ‘you can’t do that’
Because ‘you are a little girl’
It moves on to ‘there is no room’
For ‘those like you’ in this world
‘You’re too dumb to be a doctor
Too slow to win the race’
Not pretty enough for a date
‘Just cover up that face’
‘We won’t pay you what your worth
Step to the back of the room’
You have no power over your life
Not even over your womb
You hear these things long enough
You begin to believe the words
They slither down into your soul
Where they can create the most hurt
Self doubt is not a rite of birth
But rather a learned behavior
A lesson taught by the weakest ones
Desperately afraid of failure
It’s time, my dear, take them to school
Show them what you’re all about
Put on that crown, stand up tall
To hell with all that self doubt.
For my writing group, my brilliant friends
We are passionate women
torch bearers of varying ages and backgrounds
some without degrees, some with PhDs
all serious of talent, full of hospitality
bonded together by affection for words
and for the world led by unrelenting
conviction to curate the past
make sense of the present
brainstorm the future
Our ensemble sings the fragrance of daily life
paying stark attention to the minute
the seemingly unimportant details
painting our pursuits with an array of color
sharing experiences and recording
family history that might otherwise be lost
We are a circle of trust and support
breaths of courage and creativity
empathizers and sympathizers hoping
to help heal crushed hearts in a broken world
saying “it’s okay” or “it’s not okay” and
gently reminding “sitting beside you is my privilege”
We are a true and proper space
for reflection and respite
giving life to inspiration
celebrating innovation
cultivating peace and truth
striving for justice and a clear voice
We are clusters of wonder and wanderlust
a menagerie of magic and stardust
elements of power and tenderness
casting unabashed marrow
into a sea without nets
