untitled
Today my brain
snagged on some lines, demanded inversion
so they’d read
‘sharp as feathers;
soft as knives’
And there is something steeping,
soaking up energy behind my teeth
it is edges
and crowning;
fire painted with grief.
I’m tired
I don’t really feel like writing a poem
I stood with my community tonight
And marched for Black Lives
It’s 2020 and the fact that nothing’s changed is disgusting
I’ll continue to use my voice
I’ll continue to march
No justice,
No peace
My better half’s a painter:
I sculpt echoes against an encrypted palimpsest;
We live in a house of mirrors,
star-strewn serpents’ scales refracting boughs & flowers;
redolent stars impressed in titian, fuschia,
jonquil, crocus, columbine orange;
marauding freckles forever heard and heeded
amongst snug fireside chanties floating
soft and sweet as crackling incense,
signals dithering, dense as shoals of lurid krill,
a shoulder slanting casts in gasping reflections.
the youthful scent of sunscreen
while the sun peaks out
from the clouds
the smell of honeysuckle
as the ground
moans under our feet
there is a peace
that brows through
like the smell of the pines
it comes from the spirits
living in the trees
and the birdsong
the day ends
with pizza,
ice cream, slushees,
and barefoot dancing
in the street
there is something
unexplainable about these days
maybe it’s the high of the joy
a lonely longing
or the future
thank you, to whosever eyes
just graced mine. as you know
we are all still learning to love
without our mouths.
who do you think of
when you see a stranger?
my amenable mother is behind
me, her big kind eyes
crossed only a little
can i just know who
else stops for the
produce rain, rests
their hands on their
thighs with a bag full of
greens and
listens to the thunder?
I arrive at the skate park before the abatement
of real skaters’ hangovers. I sweep away debris
that might sprawl a teen on concrete. I throw
away sandwich wrappers and empty beer cans.
By ten o’clock, guys show up who flip boards
like coins, and that’s when I flop my board back
in my Corolla and drive home. You see, I’d rather
break my wrist in private, which is what I think
I did last week, but haven’t confirmed with x-rays.
Knee pads and elbow pads and a helmet would
probably be a good idea, but I’m not in the mood
to afford those. My only wrist aches a little. I can
still push a broom, and there are brooms to push.
We both know that it is on it’s way,
Can read the signs even in the dark.
But we can explain it away,
Making excuses for each symptom.
Maybe if we don’t call it’s name,
It won’t come back home.
Distant
piano notes
float
through the
night,
accompanied
by
crickets chirping
and
the humming
of
cicadas.
Such
calming sounds
ease my
tired
spirit,
exhausted
from
caring
and
my unwavering
melancholic
mood.
But soon,
the distant
piano notes
will stop,
and
so will
my
peace.
