the one I folded out of a five-year-
old piece of computer paper, crafted
mostly during a Sunday morning Zoom
workshop, the very first I’ve ever made.
I filled it with affirmations, encouragements
for personal reflection: Working on yourself
is a radical act. Your growth is a precious
process. You are beautiful, valuable, valued.
Inside were roses, daisies, sunflowers, snapdragons
drawn with pens, markers, highlighters in pastel
purple, electric blue raspberry, accountant’s
eyeshade green, the whole of it titled bloom.
When I showed him the booklet, he swiveled
in his chair, away from dual screens to read, flip it
over, smile up at and thank me before setting it
on his desk, assigning it to prominent display.
I’d say I didn’t have the heart to tell him he
was not the intended recipient, but I realize
now that’s not even half true — that man
also deserves, has every right to bloom.
How does this iteration of our world not end in nauseating violence?
I suppose you could argue that every iteration does eventually.
I always just expected us to do better than this.
I remember my mother saying that often to us as children.
“I expected better, and I’m disappointed.”
Even in times of great pain and suffering
I really appreciate being able to understand my mother
And her wisdom.
On a hot July day when I was a tween,
Father and I took the dog for an outing
to Cuivre River State Park. As we strode
in bipedal mode, Puddles raced full throttle
on four paws, ears flapping, his Dalmatian
spots blurred by speed, or barked in rich
baritone and tried to pee on every tree.
As we rested on the parapet of a stone
bridge, Puds, ever inquisitive, bounded
to us, jumped three feet to top the barrier,
somersaulted over the edge, and plummeted
some twenty feet to the sand bar below.
I screamed. Father assumed the worst.
After a seeming eternity, the tumbler
righted himself and staggered up the bank.
Father retrieved the car, and for once,
Puddles didn’t have to be coaxed
into the backseat of our ancient Ford.
That night at bedtime Mother declared
the pup too sore to descend twelve steps
to his bed in the basement. He accepted
the thick, hand-hooked rug she placed
at her bedside, and though he suffered
no permanent damage, Puddles never again
managed those steps at bedtime, and he
soon claimed a place on the foot of the bed.
The day is drifting into night and
the heat leaching from the concrete
when I take the cats outside
for exercise and exploration.
One makes herself at home in the weeds,
hidden from prying eyes
to watch the neighborhood go by.
The other, startled, runs back to the door
for the promise of safety and solace.
I lean back on the rough, heated concrete
and look up at the tree branch overhead
flowering, spread
like some benevolent hand blessing me.
It’s quiet, my neighbors home,
either for the night or for social distance
until someone stops to ask directions.
The ever-inquisitive cat appears at my elbow
for attention or to back me up, I’m not sure.
Nagging itches at my wrist and shin
make me realize that if my neighbors
are having dinner, the mosquitos are too.
So I herd the cat indoors, hoping
her itch is taken care of
so that I can take care of mine.
is like forgetting how to put a spoon in
your mouth
When the simple act of scraping that last wet mouthful
of rice and beans
and regular Valentino
and chicken apple sausage comes
into realization
and your hand gripping the spoon feels a degree off so you adjust and it feels more wrong
and your lips wrap around the spoon
like they have never done anything like that before
but the food is down the hatch
before you register it’s gone
and you realize you never even remembered
to sit in that last spoonful
let it simmer on your tongue
the one you’ve saved until the very end
The forest
is quiet in the
muggy heat
and beads of
sweat roll down
my shoulders
and arms.
I jump as a
lone squirrel
rustles overhead,
heavy on the
branches as
it travels
across the
canopy.
I take deep
breaths of
honeysuckle air
as I gaze up
at sun-coated
ridges,
the rock cliffs
shimmering
golden
and green.
Even in the
thick summer,
the forest
fills me
with peace.
The wings on your fish have grown
Able to make your way from the sea
Your dismantled gills, useless lungs sewn
Never came around, your promises, prophecy
A fairytale you’d take me, a hidden lie
You lost my feet walking away
Muffling goodbye
All I could say was okay
That’s me in the ocean
behind our house
getting acquainted with the waves,
1983.
Written on the back of a photo
I find in a box of random things.
It is not me there—outstretched arms
back to the camera.
I begin to recognize the great gray sky,
dark blue water, frosty waves captured,
rolling toward the shore—
the Maine coast in Autumn.
The handwriting on the back
tall and swirly wave caps,
a diagonal slant washing across,
yet no words running together
each space planted firmly
like the woman facing forward,
knee deep in the chilly blue,
arms open wide,
getting acquainted with the waves.
“C’mon” – he jerks his head
and I fall in behind him,
following his steps
down beside the barn
to the rusted out yellow car.
He is determined
I need to drive a stick.
Full of old man confidence
and stubborn boy iron,
he means to be the one to do it.
I know why – I know the debt
he is atoning but I am not
inclined to be the trade.
He will be the first
of how many is it?
They all speak the same –
offer the same words ‐
Feel.
Pay attention – you will feel it
listen – feel – know
You feel that?
No, always no
And I never do.
I somehow never learn
to recognize the change
in movement,
the giving away
and failure
to grip on – to know when
to brace and change gears.
I am always on the gas
and willing everything forward.
We spend weeks in that
picked over cornfield.
He yells, he cajoles,
he smacks my leg
and hollers, “now”
and I keep on missing the signs.
and that rusty yellow car keeps
rutting itself over uneven mounds of sod.
