Posts for June 29, 2020 (page 5)

           “I decided that I was supposed to be here  
             to catch some of the stones people cast at each other.”      –from Just Mercy  

This quarry world needs stonecatchers
because rocks come from everywhere—  

                             the complicit well-intentioned  
                 
                                        the misusers of the flag,                       praying to a god of nationalism          
          the government, elected to help,                      yet in bed with greed,         

                                                     sometimes our very selves  

Every news cycle lands a million hits.  

We read the news like Giles Corey calling for more weight.
Let the modern Giles go from more weight to knowing more to
More? Wait. to
Wait. No more!  

When Jesus told any who were blameless to cast the first stone,
they knew to walk away. What would America do?  

We might be too busy admiring how bulked up our throwing arm has become,
checking out that tone, picking up any stone we can hurl
in the name of superiority. Any rock will do—  

igneous, sedimentary, metamorphic. May metamorphosis lead us
to intercept the rocks used to build systems that destroy humans.
Make no mistake. Stonecatching will bruise you
so that other people may heal.

THE SONG THAT CALLS US HOME
(for Bobbie Ann Mason)

My old Kentucky home
the place I’ve run from
most of my life t
the place friends left
to find a better way
the place hearts long for on cloudy days.

Kentuckians have stood in the canyons of New York City
gazed at snow capped peaks
of reflected light on jagged skyline l
ooked to skyscrapers pointing
out the new frontier.
We’ve been absorbed
in the crowd of Mardi Gras
stumbled through the streets of
          bottles, booze and boudoirs
watched bare breasts bounce
to the rhythm of Jazz.

Yet
any place we go
Kentuckians are lost
homesick
          restless to return.

Some deny it
swear to never go back but
          somewhere
hidden by tall Bluegrass
or green tobacco
there is a tombstone reserved
for them where family and
friends are buried
in deep fertile soil.

And, those of us
who’ve come home
who’ve seen bright city lights
who’ve heard the quiet of desert sand
who’ve smelt the smog of L.A.
Who’ve smoked dope and
slept in the arms of whores,
we know. T

Those of us
who’ve seen the Rhine
          the Tames and
          the Dead Sea…
who’ve crossed oceans
to be shot at and
to shoot back
those of us who’ve cried and
laughed and
groaned
with strangers everywhere,
we know.
We know in the end
by no real choice of our own
we come back.

We come back
because we hear the song.
The song that calls us home.

Tony Sexton

Voices in my head;
Snippets of song from my youth – 
Comfort, or cause pain.

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We turn off the television and walk outside  

The evening grass is cool and juicy beneath our bare feet  

Feathery breezes play with our souls  

Just days before, the lilacs sprouted green fists of promise
Today they smack us with their deep purple revelations
Scent a sweet coma  

The sun a fashion diva flaunting her colorful wardrobe
Along the sky’s blue-smothered runway  

In the distance children delight at their games  

Birds fuss and settle into their spectral night trees  

How awesome this world!  

(So, yes, I do.)

In the deaf, mute dark,
I whisper, “Yes, O’Hurry…”
My pulse travels south.

When it gets painful,
fingers relieve the pressure,
watermelon juice.

Your earbuds are in,
dreams adrift in your book as
I manifest mine. 

Waiting for my rental, I watched the half-hearted rain from the station cafe, pictured you gazing from the kitchen of your mother’s house with a similar cup of similar tea balanced in your very individual hands while listening for tires on the drive snaking between the trees. That house was haunted, not by your late parents so much as by you, the insistent memories of growing there under the cannon fire of their lives, and in retrospect I understand your choice to meet there, selecting a white-collared black envelope to send the single invitation. Through the evening and night, hushed words and thin scream-cries as you spoke for the first time of her bruises by his hands, of his breath at your neck on too many nights across too many years, the later claiming of your empty bed to align his adulteries, described torn promises, twisted commandments almost scripturally fragile. At last I saw why we were never lovers, though in love with the idea of each other, and why you took me for confessor, entrusted fully with your exorcism, to be haunted while your dreams run sweet around me as I try to learn who frees the priest of demons heard through screens in darkened rooms.  

unduhwee
underwear + panty

stummy
stomach + tummy
 
bidduhboo
little baby boy

beguhneeze
bacon+ egg + cheese

berrucking
breaking
(the exception to the rule)

What do these faux words have in common?
widely unknown but common at home 
quick-firing brain?
stab at efficiency?
I’ll tell ya

cosmic payback
motherhood reparation
karma spanks the kid
satisfaction guaranteed

Yes please and thank you

My fear for them
and of them
transforms our relationship
forever tainted
by their choices

With my insecurities,
it’s always a game of truth or dare.

They ask me
Honestly
What wouldn’t you change?

They challenge me
to make disguise an art form,
hide as if I weren’t –

until the tables turn.

I interrogate them
How could you change this?

I dare them
to show me what isn’t 
already art.

Most of the time I don’t even think of it at all. 
I can drink coffee and eat Cheerios without 
thoughts creeping in of holding a sweet babe 
close to my chest, feeding the child my own 
life-strength in pure liquid gold. Other days, 
these thoughts are so heavy that they drape
across my shoulders and torso like an afghan, 
crafted, I’m certain, by a great-aunt who blessed it
with all the love she could muster, a blanket 
weighted with pastel hopes and dreams of sunshine.
Most of the time I can breeze by the tiny clothes
without pausing to gently graze my fingertips across
tiny pink peplum tops with matching buttery leggings,
over forest green corduroy pants and soft charcoal vests.
Other times, though, I can hardly scold myself into budging
from those little aisles, imagining how much dreamier 
they’d feel after being tenderly washed with Dreft and Downy.
I can’t help but boomerang back to what I might call them, 
those babies that I can’t allow myself to call my own.
Names have always been the most memorable things to me
about people I have known as classmates, friends,
even those who forever remain simply acquaintances.
When I find my mind rocking and drifting into the shallows,
I even have to name myself for who I am should I go there:
selfish mother, neurotic mom, foolish woman who thought
she could raise a living creature when she forgets to give herself 
water and bathe regularly and keep her own mind from 
tangling itself into an impossible knot of “should haves.”
I’m much gentler with the little list I’ve compiled of names
for the babes, more forgiving, yet slightly tinged with despair.
Most of all, the names are strong– stronger than their mom. 
They’ll continue to bloom and thrive in the recesses of my mind, 
and I allow myself a few moments every now and then 
to tend to the thoughts, until I’m reminded to live.