Affidavit
I slipped under
but did not drown.
Something new and wet
breathed in me.
I skirted the cliff
but did not plunge.
Something lifted, set me down,
loose and free.
Uncertainty looms;
I crave bravery.
Shouting into the wind,
my words whip back,
smacking me;
my own intentions
leave a mark.
I resolve to live
with a past free of shame,
with a present free of anxiety,
with a future free of dread.
I resolve to no longer
let disappointments linger,
let heartaches define,
let failures repeat,
let my reflection embarrass,
let brokenness consume.
I resolve to
listen well,
love extravagently,
let others come first.
Uncertainty looms;
bravery hits me
where I need it most.
engulfed in flames of fury,
i can feel the heat inside my heart.
the bullets and the butterflies
soar through the air on wings of hate.
they say freedom rings,
but it sounds more like a gun shot.
today is everyone’s first birthday.
when three heads split from two.
saturn returns;
the sun rises orange;
here, a virus made of vigilance.
they say it’s just the fireworks,
but it sounds more like a gunshot.
i am coming to the strangest terms
with no trust in trials or their terrors.
there’s anger coursing through my veins,
i’m pinned down against the hurling rage.
i’m screaming with this crown of pain.
they say liberty rings out,
but it sounds more like a gun shot.
It’s what my hard-scrabble childhood
needed like oxygen and it’s what
my father tried to provide.
Marching music on the radio
for breakfast. He was always
whistling under his breath.
An upright piano in the living
room and to tempt me
with more lessons–trumpets
displayed in a felt case, an accordion
demonstrated on trial, a clarinet
borowed from the school band–
all stabs at inspiring me out of the gray
ordinary and into the exalted above.
My mother’s pizza
was always my birthday dinner,
desert island food.
I loved watching her make the dough,
trusting her hands to know what to do.
She could throw it high into the sky
like the best pizzaiolos,
but once when I was young, she missed,
the dough landing neatly on my head.
A family joke for years on end.
She made pizza as an act of love,
but also for the space it gave her
for her own joy to grow,
doubling in size along with the dough.
As she grew into her nineties,
as arthritis wrecked her hands,
she made pizza less frequently.
Still for my birthday, still for her pleasure.
Eventually, though, she just stopped.
It was not something we talked about,
a sadness we dared not name.
In my grief, I gave up gluten.
Pizza would never be the same.
Take your hands off that scar.
A friend once described a car wash thus:
“such an uncomplicated activity.”
But I didn’t find it so –
determining which lane I’m supposed to go in,
reading the menu – just like at a drive-through,
with too many options and not enough time –
then being upsold by the bearded sales man, unlimited
washes for 14.99, on sale today for just five.
Trying to do mental math while being stared at
through my car window – accepting, then the paperwork
comes out – following waving arms, trying not
to get too close, or run over anyone’s toes, and now
you want me to put my car in neutral,
after those signs about damage and liability,
and sit back, enjoy the ride?
But somehow, it works, the groans and creaks
of my car being moved forward by some invisible
force are soon overshadowed by the whirl
of brushes and spray of water. Fractured rainbows
accompany a few blissful moments of private bubbles,
followed by a rinse and belch back out
into the world, full of eyes trained on me,
including some I know. Look, there’s my pastor’s son,
working hard in a blue shirt, am I supposed to wave
to this teenager who won’t recognize me?
The towel-dry by hand is the most awkward part,
I want to just pull away, but again, those toes…
Finally it’s done, and when they wave me off,
I have to remember how to drive
again.
Her heartbeat speeds
as she steps outside
into the black ocean of night
lapping against her balcony,
and recognizes the figure
standing at the edge
of the woods below:
her desperate desire,
waiting.
The night wind slides
across her bare arms like
a silk scarf floating
through moonlight. Night
blooming jasmine is lush
and sweet. Firefly flash
studs the dusky trees.
And her shadow man
beckons.
She will run to him again,
shameless with hope
that the strong arms
she remembers
and yearns for
will be flesh and blood.
And that this time,
the swift currents of night
will scrub her clean
of dreaming.
“The physical vision of where I grew up is very outstanding,” Mom said.
And she listed the red sandstones,
Monument National Park,
Devil’s Kitchen,
“Places we climbed around …
A tunnel you could crawl through”
We can taste her mother’s fried chicken
and baked beans as we laugh
about how my brother almost exactly has
the recipe right for those beans,
and
I share my memories of the curves of
Grand Junction’s Main Street and
when I ask another question from another card,
she can’t decide if she believes
life is short or if she believes life
is long and we agree it is based
on the moment.
In 15 years, I will remember
squares of strange and familiar
faces on a 13-inch screen
for sometimes eight hours a day.
In 15 years, I will remember
sitting at a kitchen table in
a kitchen chair by a bed and
ironing board in a faux office.
In 15 years, I will remember
perpetual lower back pain,
and days of lying flat on my back
in my real bed seeking enlightenment.
In 15 years, I will remember
how my fan blowing into
my microphone annoyed some Zoomers,
as my second bedroom cum office had no airco.
In 15 years, I will remember
that after over a year of studying
and living in a Dutch-speaking land,
my Portuguese still flowed far better.
In 15 years, I will remember
that after over a year of searching
for meaning in myriad religions and
remote lands, I only wanted to come home to you.
