Posts for 2020 (page 109)

And like that, she was gone.
I didn’t get to meet her,
but I have some dishes
that belonged to her,
and I use them every day.

She never learned to drive,
but that didn’t seem to slow
her down in the least, as I’ve seen
pictures of her in the most
unexpected places:

New York Public Library,
Grand Canyon, Maid
of the Mist, the Golden
Nugget, CN Tower, Teotihuacan,
Powell’s Books.

I’ve also seen pictures of her
in very ordinary places: the kitchen,
the dining room table, the porch
swing, the barn that burned
down after lightning struck.

This wasn’t hers, but she wears
a sweater very much like it in many
of those pictures. Sometimes
when I put it on, it feels
like I’m wearing her instead.

Moon Day is your day 
To vacuum and sweep and mop
While I mope at my writing desk
Desk writing is definitely my mope
My modus operandi for another week
You say scram, out of my way, out
Of this sterile wreck tangle of the leaf 
Litter of language where literature
Is left behind, out to the squiggly mess
Of what nature provides for free
So I go through air’s open door 
Ratchet into summer’s overgrowth
To sit write stand
In the roots of an old sycamore
Whose single trunk branches
At eye level
Into an equal trinty of tree
I crane my head to witness
Its holy fingers reaching
Up to the un-answering sky
Then the wind stills itself
I look down to see a mosquito
On the cuff of my pants, I think
Of the small bite you left on the nape
Of my neck and of the body parts life flings
In various directions for various reasons.
Perhaps when my molecules
Ascend to earth’s dome this sycamore
Will stick its nose up into the ether to catch
My scent
 

It’s pride month
I’m bisexual
I have been my whole life
I didn’t know
Because my parents
Used to say
I was gay as a punishment
I never took it that way
But they shamed me
And it made me think,
Like all my other thoughts,
that I was bad
I used to talk to other girls about boys
Just to talk to girls
I’m married to a boy 
So people still shame me for saying
I’m bisexual
I’m pretty sure they don’t know 
What it means 
It means
I know myself better than I used to
And I can look back
And know who I was,
Who I am

windows open and I almost regret
fireworks pop pop popping
early as it’s mid June
voices, sirens, doors open and close and why is everyone so loud
a breeze occasionally blows in but I’m not sure it’s enough
I tell myself I will soon close the windows
subdue the world and its clanging
rest does not come without silence
not to me and the loudness ensues
       more than just tonight
       everything arises, in an off key harmony
       weeks and weeks on top of days
       when will chaos end

the right chair is more important than you might guess–
angles between brush and canvas and arm and chair
creating as many dimensions as string theory theorizes

the magic can only happen with the right chair

Ronald, the street painter, did not know this;
at least, it never crossed his mind
he simply found an old chair in a shop on the Rue de Turenne
and decided it was comfortable

Passersby, of course, were mesmerized by his canvases,
by the gentle flick of his wrist, by the way his gaze 
drew their eye to the invisible line he traced on the canvas

Morons and foreigners would try to interrupt Ronald,
to seek a cheap caricature from the small man
they did not recognize as a master.

Ronald paid no attention–
his left hand held the brush, his right the palette
and before him stretched the Seine in its glory
passersby walking on the streets above the river, unaware
of the undulating rhythm of the water
finding its way into the motion of his arm

when the street painter sat on his chair
he disappeared into his landscapes–
revealing, on the canvas, a universe
not unlike our own, yet
all the more beautiful

Lesser than the sun, 
but greater than the Earth,
and always, always more
than the sum of her parts

You’ll not believe
    –as if you could hide such a thing–
I was strong enough to walk
but I sat down
and sobbed.
They were
weeping, too–
bless them,
they burned it.
That land should be blank forever.
It was terrible to watch
and know

“

When someone does not realize they are corrupted, and think they are walking around as a moral lightening rod — what they end up conducting is intolerance and ignorance.

The folks that love taking pictures with non-white children on mission trips and stay silent when non-white children need help in the US.

They are the anti-abortionists who don’t care if the child has access to health care once they are born.

They believe in charitable donations, if they can write it off on their taxes.

They rally against social welfare programs and promote the expansion of military presence to help “liberate” the same folks they trample in their anti-immigrant rhetoric.

They are white blood cells that attack their own body — corrupted and lost.

Yes, we all know these people — and the realization is demoralizing when they identify themselves.
”

The hot and cold times, unseasonal and unexpected. Brutal storms dividing peaceful interludes. Endless days with too-brief nights. Contrapuntal changes in the music of the years. Yes: Life together. We were giants, in our way, towering above what besieged us, sometimes to our own surprise. With time, without warning though predictable, the ground beneath us shifts in increments. Some around us fail, fall, become the wreckage of old dreams. And we, our stories joined, carved deep into our surface, stand among the lucky, leaning on each other.

I have a dove made from clay
My voice is drawn to a whisper
I no longer cling to these marble pillars
Will you listen?

The dove holds not an olive branch, but a seed
My voice is a smooth silver, reflective
I have a message as clear as cool water
Will you listen?

The dove turns from soft clay to stone
I raise my voice to brass
My hands carry tension in clenched fists
Will you listen?

The stone wings open and glisten with stained glass
I hear my voice cascade around these halls and come back to me in triplets
I am steady
Will you listen?