Posts for 2020 (page 169)

It’s surreal to sit with my son
and listen to the whippoorwill
as we talk about its extinction.
The lonely call
fervent then fading.
Repeat.

We watch bats dip down
to drink from the pond,
disrupting the mirrored
sunset across its surface,
and I think of their fate too.
I don’t have the heart
to share more hopeless
facts with a person whose
future rests on this
crumbing foundation.

His excitement to hear
the whippoorwill and
reassurance at least
we have this moment
in our memories,
a deduction
beyond his years,
fills me with a
desperate kind of love,
a touch of hope,
and deep aching despair.

A small white butterfly

Drifting through the field

Makes me feel like I’m innocent

Like the younger me with no worries

Filled with joy and unconditional love

A breathtaking blue butterfly

Resting under the wooden porch

Feels like a good day

Surrounded by beautiful people

Like the days I feel free

A gentle yellow butterfly

Sifting through the flowers

Reminds me there’s positivity coming

And to hold on to hope, and that

Things will turn out the way they’re supposed to

Words fly after me 
and I run barefoot
beneath the hedge.
Girl the dog follows,
sensing trouble
then kittens in a crooked row
chasing tail.
Protected by fur,
though the air is heavy
under the sill. 
Loud shouts question
dishes crash
and I run stumbling
’round the house
to the back door
up the stairs
dive deep into my closet
behind toys and books.
Engine roars,  
gravel spits
he’s gone.

Pride month is not cancelled, we’re simply getting back to our roots.
Some of us need to be reminded that this was never about a rainbow aisle in Target.
This was born when a black trans woman picked up a brick, 
When people crowded the sidewalks to fight back, 
And told the police that they were done giving up their safe spaces.
Just because we’re not drunk in the streets, or posting rainbow manicures on Instagram, 
Do not think that we’re not celebrating. 
Every sign we hold at a protest, 
Each cop we tell “not again”, 
Every second we spend educating ourselves,
And each time we pull an ally into the fight, 
We are throwing the parade of our lives. 
Pride is not cancelled,
Pride is revived.

Art is taking something a little less than real and making it a little more than real.

The Bluejay was mad
he missed me, didn’t see me
I was somewhere else

My body is a brooding teenager
In spirit only, unfortunately
Resisting all ideas for improvement and
Pleas for mercy
Staying up far too late
Keeping its secrets
Loud and unruly
A real bully

You should see someone about that
Oh the doctors!
They find the most tactful ways
To describe my real affliction
I’m NUTS
I gotta be careful around those too
Especially in the evenings

You should see someone about that then
These poor therapists
Who are barely hanging in there
The last one nodded off as I spun
A tale of abuse
No thanks, I’ll handle this
On my own

My body knows better than I do
It’s the only one being honest
About how I feel
Convincing folks, including myself
That I’m doing just fine?
That’s my job

Still in the
shade, peering
around the
corner. What
does the next
turn have in
store for
me? I can
already hear
the crashing
of a distant
shore. Will
the lillies still
be at my side?
What waits
in the width of
an afternoon?

Realizing you caught yourself slipping into a cycle of unhinged purging
The hardest thing to do is say no when your lungs fail 

Remember the old place with the vine-covered wall? We’d ride our bikes the two miles along the rutted, sun-baked dirt road from the small village our parents raised us in, quiet so the old woman who lived in the house behind the brick barrier wouldn’t hear us, or so we hoped. The oldest of us girls would steady a bike so the youngest could climb up on the saddle and pick from the apple trees whose branches hung over to seduce us into petty theft. One piece only for each of us, and I remember as we rode away that I’d turn and wave, mouthing my thanks on our behalf. Thieves we might have been, but raised with manners and gratitude.  

With the years, I fully believed she saw and heard us, and didn’t understand why she never called out to chastise, or came by to tell our mothers. Two young girls changed that for me today, thinking-hoping I didn’t see them, lithe as silent deer as they crossed my yard to each take an apple fallen from its branch. This is why our boldness was forgiven without mention: We were aiding and abetting an old woman’s memories of being young.