Posts for 2020 (page 198)

I
The end of a crane against gray clouds, a tassel dangling in the wind. I remember the blue heron at the edge of the pond, leg bent against the fog, and I suddenly know why they are called cranes.

II
In between classes, on the first day of the year that I have worn short sleeves outside comfortably, I see a cardinal perched in a tree and I wonder, who watches over me today?

III
I leave my house for the first time in two days. As I get in my car, I notice the body of a robin dangling from a bare branch in my front yard, its neck and beak caught, capturing the bird’s descent. Locking, sealing, the moment behind the depths of my own brown eyes. I drive away.

IV
There are trees blossoming everywhere; pink, white, yellow, red. The fields are lush and green once more; and the air is warm and humid, the water lingering in the air from the previous night’s downpour. A small, shiny bird perches on a telephone wire. It is spring, even so.

V
114 new cases. 7 deaths. I glance out the window, not wanting to believe it, and spot a darkly colored bird grooming itself in the rain. Perched on a branch in the same tree that led a robin to its end. In the emptiness and gray, it still checks for observers and the green eyes of my cat, waiting at the window.

VI 
The cardinal visits every afternoon, always catching me off guard. I see his brothers fluttering together at the top of a distant fence, stained with rainwater. Bittersweet. The trees stretch towards the atmosphere and the grass sighs once more.

My father’s near death experience

I stand at the foot of the bed,
my eyes glued to the monitor
above him.
I count his heartbeats
as the machine records them.
I observe his blood pressure as it drops,
and then he dies.

The nurse rushes in,
responding to the machine’s alarming.
she shocks him
and gets his heart to beat.
The rest of her team arrives,
but she waves them off.

He looks at me and says, “
When I floated above you,
I knew I was out of my body,
for I could see it.
I could not touch it, asleep,
so it appeared.
I knew I would not escape this death.”

“But you did,” I say.

“Did you see that shadow man,
running around the walls?”

“No,” I say.  

He laughed.  

“What’s so funny?”
 
“I really showed him,” he says.
“I bet he’s angry about it.
I can’t say I blame him though.”

i am a storm.
i can smudge out the sun in an instant
and use lightning and thunder to demand your attention.
i flood the earth with the water she desperately craves
and scare animals into their hiding places.
my thunder makes adrenaline course through your veins.
you can feel me coming from miles away.
the calm before i truly arrive is your only warning.
when you feel the pressure in the atmosphere shift,
you should prepare. you can’t ignore me.
i come when i want, stay as long as i want.
i’ll wake you from your dreams
and beat on your windows so you can’t go back to sleep.
i am the darkness, the thunder, the power, the fear.
i am all of it.
the pressure, the electricity, the rain, the force.
i am a storm.

it always happens around the same time
even when it’s raining with heavy clouds
I can feel the evening sun push through
the hazy, heavy, horrible muck
carrying the sharp cut
of nostalgia and ruin
of her and how we became a neon
flash that grew and blossomed
spilling out and redefining
who I am
exposed 
unafraid

but those can’t match
when I was fishing out the coldest 
Pepsi’s I ever drank from my father’s
work cooler
while getting him another beer
I can still remember how he smelled
sitting on the picnic table with a cigarette;
sweat and blood and tar
and the white-gold pure heat of the sun
while he told stories and laughed 
the time when I still believed
that he loved me

or when I was on the southern coast
with the hard-edged heat masked 
in the coconut wafting off those women
that would walk by with their sun hats
and I wished to taste the salt off their 
shoulders
that place where I believed that 
the more I visited
that my entire family was 
enamored and transformed
in a sad way because none of them
knew that they weren’t meant 
for that kind of place
and I wasn’t meant 
for my mother
because I wasn’t that kind of kid

or the sick and broken feeling
that I got while deep in a hollow
right after a heavy rain
with the orange sun struggling
to find passage through the
heavy
green 
leaves
stood in a patch of wild Easter lilies
while the insects started back up
their chorus and the night shift
of animals started to move
I watched 
that 
old 
bitch
gather those flowers up
in those gnarled hands so gently
knowing what she did to me
knowing what she would do to me
but unable to be smart enough
to figure out how to escape
from the whole thing
besides killing myself 
or her

so when I say Summer is my favorite
still seems a little confusing
by my god
the what could be
is better than the 
what has been

all ghosts
all gone
just like 
parts of me

will I make amends
for the things I have done today
will I be able to let go of the things
that I’ve held on to so tightly?

I know mother always said
“Don’t end the night with things weighing on your heart”
but it’s already dark and I do not have the strength
though his light is still on
the path to his room is too long

I will regret this choice in the morning

Wind rustles the leaves,
frogs and birds call,
but a sharp engine cuts
across the background –
a plane in the distance filled
with people on their way
to somewhere.

The sounds
of man invade even the
sacred space of the woods.
There is no escape –
no places left untouched
by our destructive greed.

I have tracked the bird calls
and frog eggs, tree buds and
flower blooms for seasons
upon seasons; my life
mapped out in careful
phenological notes,
nature a concept far more
entwined with our fate
than the economy
will ever admit.

The past few years
have destroyed the
careful pattern
unfolding in my
records to map
out the sudden
and erratic
changes in our climate,
building more evidence
for concern
each passing day.

I walk the forests,
as I always have,
lamenting
past clear cuts
now filled with maples
and sycamores,
pawpaws and sassafras,
absent the giants of
old growth sacrificed
in the name of dollars.

We leave scars across
the land for progress
and money,
burning out what’s
not valuable to the
capitalist eye
and harvesting
the rest for profit.

We leave litter cascading
over protected areas where
we go to “soak in nature,”
cameras snapping perfect
moments for followers online,
and we cry out in horror
because the world
collapses around us,
and we just
can’t figure out why.

I am sick of my stretching

parachute stomach.

Resentful of this daily process

of tucking

my not so secret

apron belly

shame

into my genes.

I call the plastic surgeon

who says my insurance will cover

the removal of my kangaroo pouch.

Did you have bariatric surgery?

No.

Call us back when you’re down

20 more pounds.

Insurance won’t fund

this procedure

until your body mass index

is lower.

By that time

my fucking pannus

will be shifted

into the tops of my socks.

My roll

will have slipped

under a rolling pin

of self loathing

and spread like dough

to my knees.

My belly button

will look like a goddamn

bell shaped curve

with my mental health

at such a low

we’ll throw that outlier

right out.

I call the dietitian next.

I add apples and kale

to my click list order.

I drink some

bullshit green tea.

Is there room

for radical acceptance?

In this flesh prison?

In these clinging pants?

No.

While walking the railroad tracks
Head down to gleen and claim aluminum oddities
And rusty bolts, a child’s wonder yet on me
Though old, and not a care
To bind me in the world,

I saw a red fox lanky, skinny
Scared and mean to see me.
Stopped as we wanted to crash
And weaved around me, crossed the tracks
In his own way, dainty but fast,
And loped off guilty, as if he’d
Stolen a chicken or a golden egg.

I thought what? dog? no. cat? no. what?
A rodent in his mouth, probably a mole.
He must have been lost in thought too,
To come so close,
He must have been pained, alert, half-starved.
50 yards off now and fading, a determined trot,
Slid under a fence, in the midst of horses,
Nevermore to see beyond pitched ground
A low rise at the brink of pastureland.
Would he cross the field, 
To the woods and brook beyond,
Where hobos are drinking coffee, startle them too,
Back out of sad reveries of decay, 
Into Wonder, and give them a story to tell?

And then the woman soul embraced me full. 
She’s taking food to her kits in some 
Warm musk hole.
A mother’s tender Love, dodging
Indifference, a lower grade of men,
To champion life in the new risen morning.
The sun in my eyes sight was lavish.

What would be so wrong with requiring police to have a four-year degree?
A hard one
 That involves
Race classes
Psychology
Communication
Social work classes
Maybe then people wouldn’t do it because
It makes them feel powerful
Maybe then they would become a cop because they actually care
Maybe instead of an intense physical test
They should have an intense human rights test
With mock cases and scenarios
Maybe instead of wearing a militant uniform
They could just wear khakis and a polo
Maybe they ought to prove they’re not a racist before they’re ever allowed
To be on the squad
Maybe instead of accepting people who yearn for power
They accept people who yearn for human decency
Maybe instead of training their officers to have no feelings
They could train them to care about every perspective
Just a thought

Daughters of Atlas
seven nymphs of Pleiades
Pleiones maidens

Maia the eldest
introvert isolation
earth goddess, mother

Electra shining
bright amber, Zeus coveted
blue star of Taurus

Alcyones grace
most brilliant of the seven
kingfisher nesting

Taygete hid
as deer among mountains
spurning great Zeus

Asteropes death
running from love, snake bite sting
river nymphs passing

Celaeno, star nymph
a dark one amongst seven
lost to the cluster

Merope ashamed
turned away from Sisyphus
bee-eater fading