All mothers were summoned when George Floyd called out “Momma”
–BLM protest sign, June 2020
I cannot fathom
the heartache of black mothers,
and my heart breaks for them
as I stand for them
with my gut burning,
my body ready
to defend my protesting daughters
against spit and curses and threats of violence
from armed spectator “patriots”
lining our courthouse square.
I cannot fathom
the heartache of black mothers,
but I know the fierceness with which all mothers love.
the ashy smell of fireworks
ignites the air
there is a friendly closeness
in their laughs
one i’ve always felt
distant from
despite its welcoming purpose
i imagine a bright future
with family friends
playing children
and joy
joy…
Responsibility is to take down its bright airy dictation…
For after tongue hanging humidity a cooler head prevails
And a glorious Sunday rolls out its high pressure breeze
At my writing desk I take out notes from the in-box
Nothing anybody would find interesting, like the one
About the heron spear-fishing toads out of our pond
As the nearly full moon and her companions Jupiter
And Saturn go down behind the western horizon
Just minutes before sunrise OR this grease smeared
Piece of cardboard with the words “timing belt”
To remind me that our 1997 Honda Accord
Station Wagon seems to be slipping OR this cryptic
Lavender scented post-it note that reads: “To be
With a woman who surrounds herself with birds”
Yes, an incomplete sentence but its evidence is apparent
In the avian air-force patrolling our yard while my wife
Picks asparagus in the garden. Nothing at all
Important here, but what’s this on the back of an auto
Parts receipt? Let’s see. Oh yeah, a suggestion to myself
On how to spend the afternoon: “Hang the hammock
In the mimosa tree.” When I look up and out the sliding
Glass door I see acres of mown fields waiting for the baler
But the farmer is in church and the quietude lends
Itself to meditation, so for a little boost of inspiration
I hit “Spirituals” on the Bose botton, out comes “On Children”
By Sweet Honey and the Rock. Oh my god. Turn it on.
Listen with me. I think of all our black and white children
Quarantined or marching in the streets; masked or
unmasked, brave or frightened. Can they make a better
world? Though Sweet Honey sings that I cannot go there,
(For their souls dwell in the place of tomorrow
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams)
I’m up dancing on my old ugly legs, streaming tears
What have we done? What have I done or not done?
I repeat the song a dozen times then discover
A scrap of paper stuck under the laptop:
If we live in the clouds
We have to take earth with us
*italicized lines: Billy Collins & Ysaye Barnwell/Kahlil Gibran & Mark Jarman
IN SOLITUDE
In solitude, I think
And write
And dream
Of days painted in blues
and reds and greens
Of years that speed-by
faster than a rondo
or slow to a crawl-like lento.
In solitude
I hear what I may not
want to hear,
Not that I am not ready for it.
And weep and cry and sigh
For places
And places long gone.
My heart aches to be
Five again.
Or even twenty.
And yet in many ways
untried, untested
Until now.
what did it mean before, to be touched?
what it means now
feels sacred,
vital like water or blood, or love,
as if we are holding our breath,
waiting for the oxygen to return.
touch is a flame we pass
between us to keep warm,
it is the river the whole
valley drinks from.
did we even notice it before?
I crave touch now
like a hunger pain,
deep and hollow in my belly.
I want to be held as if to say,
“everything will be alright”
but also, “you are good.”
What spring flowers that’d peeked
are now hiding from the cold,
in the yard at least.
There are still prevalent patches of lamb’s quarters.
And one rain-chewn dandelion.
Two rain-chewn dandelions.
Pale and glaucous, sage-green buds are flecking the assuméd honeysuckle.
Rust red stalks curl and rattle by the abandoned amateur apiary.
And clovers slowly sweeping the tawnier patches
where the grass had molted,
suffusing a gripping green across the lawn
A hunched and denim-swaddled jew
furrows and jitters behind a slithering strand of sallowed azure smoke,
literally crepitating with worry for her other half
some tens of thousands paces westward
she nurses a cup
adorned with a bunny reared and smirking among some vernal flowers
if only she could don those ears
and whimsically mince through the english damp
perchance she’d cheer her darling up
and not sleave long chains of sallowed butts
for a tubby Tanuki to weigh,
assess, appraise, and, by this,
levy a gleeful twist
to this sapping and griseous english damp—
yet she’s cream for all the coffee quaffed
and a chatty, contortionist cat to scoff at her,
bacon filling a sturdy trough
and whimsied with hope that her darling return to her;
whimsied hope that she may brave
the desert winds and darting sand
and further hope that she can raise
her mother as a kid again
to gambol, skip, guffaw, and brave
such voices raised and pointing hands
that plague her still,
the past appraised,
arraigned,
and
chipperly
pardoned
I always wondered why you never called me.
Your last day was a spiderweb of connections.
Yet, you forgot to bring your thread back to me.
I’ve wondered, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, why didn’t you have anything to say?
Were you angry? Was I one of the entity’s you were upset with? Wether it be god or satan, maybe your situation? Had I done something that has went unforgiven?
Or did you think nothing could be said? That maybe we already had our moments.
Maybe leaving quietly was comforting.
And not giving me a last conversation made everything endless.
I’ll always ask myself these questions. In the darkness of my room, trying to make sense of your strange motives.
