I want to be able to talk about it,
to write about it.
What even is “it”?
a string of forgotten traumas
grief, suffering, emptiness
longing to feel whole, but struggling to trust myself in relationships
Whatever “it” is,
it’s exhausting.
I hope one day
Your child grows up to be
Just as charming as her
And just as naïve as you
And i hope she finds a boy
Who turns her into an artist
And she flourishes
Under his grasp
Feeling love
At an all time high
And i hope he uses her
And manipulates her
And rips her to shreds
And all she can use to
Build herself back up
Is the work she created
From him
And i hope you comfort her
And nurture her
And put her on a pedestal
For the world to see
And i hope you hate him
And want him to suffer just as she did
And i hope more than anything
You see yourself
In him
For nineteen more days,
it’s still spring,
still wobbling newborns
stuttering into
wicker-legged lambs
and still surfacing flora
releasing petals,
like the breath held
in the eyes of storms
and solace of sunshine.
For nineteen more days,
it’s still spring,
still your wearied palms
calming me into
subdued smiles
and still my flowering worries
asking ‘why,’
like the mantra repeated
in prolonging silences
and minds already lost.
Your mesmerizing voice captures me
Lulls me to follow
Bend my body to your whims
You speak of mystic visions
Hugging trees
Pulling energy from the soil
You lure me from my conservative roots
That set man apart and above
You eastern devil
With your silver tongue
Whispering me into hell.
There’s weather coming as my people say.
I feel it in my gut, my air-conditioned arms. I can’t
get comfortable. With sweater, I’m too warm, want to strip
down to bare flesh. When I do, chills form along my aging
arms. I list a trip to the post office after work, a walk in the heat
by the river; at Bob’s Market I’ll buy a cartload of snacks for Dad,
flowers for Mom’s grave. Once home, I’ll warm the last bratwurst,
corn-on-the cob, eat Memorial Day baked beans cold.
I could open a beer. I won’t.
Friday, I move Dad to Assisted Living. He reports
it’s all too much. Yes, 40 years of retirement, and suddenly,
he’s old. That’s how it goes. It’s all fine, until it isn’t.
As my people say, there’s weather coming in. Everything’s
a little off.
Once a woman who was busy
tired to write a poem easy
she came up with only shit
but instead of feeling bad
she said “fuck it” and released it.
a letter to wolf that calls itself a boy:
sometimes I wonder if the shiny people you’ve met in college have begun to question your large teeth and hungry demeanor.
the way I never did.
sometimes
I think about how I fit you perfectly back then. you took up the entirety of any room you were in. and I made myself so immeasurably small next to you.
sometimes
I think about what I would say to you now. over the years I have only collected words of hate for you. with the strength and knowledge I’ve gained I’ve begun to see you for what you were all along.
sometimes I wish you could see me for what I have made myself now.
the long hair you once loved is buzzed off.
my body now scattered with tattoos.
I now hold myself with a confidence that should strike fear in bloody wolves like you.
You make me shiver
Like the timber
In the coldest winter
And I remember
You were limber
And you’re back again
No, we’re not lovers
We were fighters
Now we’re barely friends
But If you knew how much I thought
About the time we spent
You would know how much you owe
For all the space you rent
And no I wouldn’t take it back
Cause I don’t need regret
What would I do
With all the thoughts
In the woods that you done bought
Where I go pitch a tent
But if you lit a fire
It would surely burn me down
The embers of my skin
Are ashes falling to the ground
Orange and gray dancers
Gently twirl into the earth
I hear your whispering rains
Singing songs about new birth
But it wouldn’t be for us
It’s clear it must be new
Imbibing crystal water
Like the twinkling morning dew
We could learn the different ways
To stop and smell the flowers
In these lovely morning showers
Walking through the shimmer
Of these gray but sunlit days
George and Tammy sing “Golden Ring”
& I wish I had one to pawn today.
Ever since I lost my job,
unemployment has been unreliable,
& I worry my body cannot do,
cannot sustain me anymore.
Like Tammy, I stopped relying on men
like George. Men who drugged their pain away.
You know, even after the divorce,
she was persuaded to duet with cold, hard cash.
the locusts got their dander
up, fine display of fallen
honey fluff edged the streets where
I breathed free as I had yearned
these months of masks. Oh joy! Blithe
fearless sneeze into the crook
of my vaccinated arm.
