Posts for 2020 (page 132)

I fell into your eyes.   

Found myself running through
Tall grass, blades stinging my legs
Fresh dew clinging to my toes 

Hopped from one flat rock to another
Pond still sleeping, a blanket of moss
Warming the algae tucked below 

Startled by the pop, pop, pop of
Miniature forest colored frogs
Throwing themselves into the water 

Tip-toed between bundles of
Reed grass standing at attention
Enormous grasshopper saluting 

Nostrils flaring wide with the 
Scent of damp pine needles now
Creeping into the warm air 

Dropped to the ground under the
Canopy of stately Jack Pine
Flat on my back to watch the wind 

I fell into your eyes.
Your green eyes. 

I don’t want to keep anything from you
and
I don’t want 
to keep anything
from you

I’ve been having a hard time saying how I feel lately
and an inherited then learned mistrust ads up
gutless wonder, suspected poser
of all feeling
I don’t want to keep anything from you but
do you even want any of it?

Then there’s that memory where
I don’t want to keep
anything
from: you
Do I need to try again here? 
Am I missing something everyone else sees?

Feels like it
but then it doesn’t
I don’t want to keep anything from you
I don’t want to
I don’t.

Everyone comes from somewhere.
You learned 
to shut people out,
and I to weep for your loss.

Entering the world
as a blank slate—your parents
bound to fill 
every inch. You learned
to mock others 
and I to turn my cheek.

Last night we put 
our practices to use.
You sent one wicked message 
and I melted lifeless 
on the couch. 

They say “you’ll never be ready”
The flood gates have opened
And the water that once barley trickled now gushes violently
I know I’ll be over my head
But I’ve always been a strong swimmer
And as I wait for the water to rise
I remind myself as of now
I’m fine

“Just kidding, NSA!” I whisper
into my iPhone speaker

Every time I send up a prayer
disguised as a joke

About regicide.

The Family of The River                                      

We ran ferries                                    
              trapped                                    
              and hunted                                    
              on this river.                        
We poled john boats                                    
               strung trot lines                                    
               and gigged frogs                                    
on this river.                        
We stood on banks                                       
eroded by time                        
and watched history                                    
pass by.

Then…                                     
            we moved                        
to the factories                        
and farms…                        
spread out to Ohio                                    
and far away places.                        
Still                        
every  now and then                        
we met                        
reunited                        
                on this river.                          

Wars and worries                        
killed us off.                        
People and places                        
distracted us                        
and soon                        
there was only memories                                    
              floating                                    
              on this river.                                    

Generations                        
gapped and sagged                        
             until…                          
we lost touch                        
             until…                                    
             we no longer knew each other.                                                                            
Brothers and sisters                        
fought over relics                        
who’s meaning and memory                        
were quickly lost                                    
              to the bickering                                   
              and anger.                          

But some…                                    
             a few            
kept the vigil                        
             held firm                        
             to the hope that            
no matter how distant            
or how angry            
some were                        
           we would still                        
           be family.            
We would always remember             
ferries and frogs            
john boats and catfish            
family and friend.            
Some knew            
there is a bond…                        
                an earthy clay…            
that holds this family together            
and while the waters of time            
wash by            
we will remain            
the family            
who ran ferries                        
             on this river.

Tony Sexton       

The raccoon was in the pool when we were called.
Which way will the narrative go? I can tell you this:
the raccoon wasn’t swimming. Having fallen from
a trap its body had agitated off the neighbor’s roof,
the raccoon was dead—drowned in an above-ground
pool. A landing unlike those in firefighter shows
in which the ones who are threatened abscond
from the threat that holds them like a prize no one
should take away, jumping from a window
onto an inflatable pad. You’ve thought it, surely: well,
that looks fun. Minus the loss, of course. Minus char.
The raccoon already stunk when we were called,
the neighbor having pulled it from the pool, unsure
of what to do next. As with most things, this could
have been a different story: we could be bringing
the raccoon tiki drinks, stretching out to reach it
afloat toward the middle of the pool, almost falling in
in our efforts and thus causing the raccoon to chatter,
which we’d interpret as a laugh, and even though
a laugh at us, at our “expense,” we’d be unbothered,
given the absurdity of the scene and the charm of
the raccoon, now twirling the tiki drink’s umbrella—
because there has to be an umbrella—and smacking
the water’s surface, chanting, “Make it rain, make it rain.”

I scan the headlines,
pause, reflect.
Can I tolerate reading more:
George Floyd, the virus,
political games, voter fraud?
But can I afford
to ignore
the lives denied,
the daily decisions made
by the brave
to raise us 
to a higher level?

I sit in my privileged space,
safe, humbled.
Afraid.

And yet, 
in the face of everything,
I feel nothing—

What horror. What privilege. 

before supper
my sister in law blotted up pissants
by the sink with a wet paper towel
and my head swam in horror
because when I wash my dishes
before I fill the sink
I run the thinnest slip of water
down an edge of the basin
and cued by the water’s vibration
the ants begin to line up
and march across plates and knives
along the lips of cups
up and then across the divider
following orders not meant for my blunted senses
disappearing through the counter’s seam 
then I rescue the drifters
stranded on tine of a fork
or the rim of a bowl
the least of these
holy