She has feathered her nest with beaten wings, caged heart strains against bent bars.
At night She escapes and flies with lightning bugs.
Flitting through tendrils of smoke, She sees his face illuminated by campfire.
Acrid stinging, cried-out eyes, She follows the vapors to him.
He reaches, catching her from the air, rests her on the tip of his finger.
She crawls to the edge of the jar.
“You’re not ready” he whispers.
Rapunzel leans out the window
on the first day of the eighth week
of self-imposed quarantine.
While the prince lies snoring,
her hair ropes behind her
in 16-foot coil.
That I might climb the golden stair…
She sighs at gray split ends
and fading streaks of lowlight.
The prince rattles coffee cups
in the kitchen, stomps heavily
on pale linoleum.
She grasps the end of her rope,
loops it loose
around wrought iron rail,
spreads fingers on free hand
to break sideways leap.
In soft grass, she clambers
toward the woods
trailed by a silver snake.
sit awhile beneath
this furnace,
our Sol
feel its breath
hot like spicy
licorice, or
the aftertaste
of a mint julep,
a freshening heat
that makes you proud
to live on its
third rock
that makes you sweat
and bleed ideas
to ground, to creek,
to ocean
until they drop back
recycled
from cloud tops,
thought seeds
from which sprout
new, better
ideas
fresher hope
I was told
that my grandfather taught
the boys how to swim
by throwing them into
one of the ponds up our road
and I would stand at the banks
and imagine them struggle
while he watched silently
just in case they weren’t
going to make it
Later I watched them struggle
with everything but swimming
while he moved through our house
without even watching or asking
for that
just in case moment
not because he believed
that they’d be fine
but because he was already
finished and gone
I wasn’t surprised
when half-drowning
wearing a suit with three kids
and pretending to have it together
that there wasn’t a hand waiting
and here most of us sit
angry
because nothing is okay
but we’ll be damned
to see our own
drown
so we can’t
burn it all down
instead
we have to make it better
for those that come after
because I’m not like him
and you’re not like them
I did it.
Four years later,
five cords draped
heavily around my neck
and one stole gently laying
underneath.
Countless hours spent
wondering what today
would feel like.
Trying to picture standing
up in front of my
class, and seeing my mom
overjoyed as I complete
this chapter of my life.
Little did I know,
I would be waiting
in a drive-thru line
to pick up my diploma,
and my memorable handshake
traded for an air
fist-bump.
No prom, or friends
at graduation, or
final wave on stage,
but my diploma
stands tall
against the pandemic.
The best three months cut
short, but hey,
at least I can say
I graduated.
She inherited his crooked
smile and big feet,
broad shoulders, no hips.
She inherited his steady
nerves, practical sense,
how to take care of things,
how to bury thoughts.
Like him, she knew
that family came first,
that burdens were blessings
like resilience and loss.
they gather in a tunnel
daylight uncertain at either end
sing
songs about a river
maybe the Gospel’s river
maybe Springsteen’s river
maybe the river Styx
sing
songs about a river
ears don’t hear
eyes can’t see
deep inside everything
sing
songs about a river
heaven’s gate
or shores of Atlantis
surfacing from the sea
To train the body at dawn
To train the body to remember
To train the body to forget
To train the body to go limp
To train the body to go without
To train the breath
To open the third eye
To open the mind
To open the mouth
To say the names
To say George Floyd
To say Breonna Taylor
To say David McAtee
To say I see you
To say I’m sorry
To say enough
To say I don’t know
To say I didn’t know
To pray
To listen
To train the ears to listen
To train the ears to hear
To train the fists
To train the guns
My landlord charged me $150
for paying my rent 8 hours late.
I can’t decide if I should cry
at her office door,
write a shitty yelp review,
or email her and ask if she’s heard
2020 is a complete disaster.
I want a refund.
I want a discount.
I want to leave these 400 square feet
for more than a walk around the block.
I have 27 new quarantine plants
that depend on me to
throw the right kind of tantrum.
Working Tobacco
We learned to work tobacco
before we learned to kiss.
When we did learn to kiss,
there wasn’t enough time
we had to work the tobacco.
While dew was still wet
and the sun’s heat
burnt at morning fog
uncles
and fathers
and friends
gathered together
like they always had
for generations
to pull the tender plants
out of the loose soil.
Each one knew
what to do.
Some bent over
others squatted
some sat on wooden planks
like a make shift bench
laid across the tobacco bed.
They were careful
to place the plants
in burlap sacks
with roots pointed out.
Then
they stacked the sacks
so the setters
could pick them up
with ease
and feed the machine
as it clanked across the patch. I
t was hard work.
My job
most of the time
was to follow the setter
and reset bad plants
or fill in spots
where the setter’s rhythm
had been broken
and a gap left in the straight row.
With bare hands
I pushed back
black soil
soft and damp from disking.
From my burlap sack
still wet with dew
I set new plants.
I was careful
to keep the roots from clumping.
Then with the same soft soil
I would cover the roots
and pack the dirt down gently.
With a tin cup
dipped in a galvanized bucket
I gave them water.
By mid-day
my knees would be caked
with the black soil
my hands
would be cut and scratched
from bits of broken stone
and arrowheads
left by some ancient culture
and turned up from plowing.
Sometimes I would stop
look back down
the long furrowed row
of tender green plants
wilted from transplanting.
And I could tell the difference
between my work
and the work of the setters.
I learned the difference
between man
and machine.
It was hard work I could be proud of.
At night
in my bed
with dirt stained hands
and aching muscles
I could feel the rhythm
and hear the clank of the setter
moving across the field.
I could feel the earth give
beneath my knees
and smell the sweat
of afternoon heat.
As weariness gave way
to sleep
and gentle rain pinged
on the tin roof over my room
I dreamed.
I dreamed of kisses
and girls
and all the things
there wasn’t time for.
Tony Sexton
