Posts for June 7, 2021 (page 10)

we trust our
sun-drinking bodies
to the river,
whooping at the rush
& gripping prohibited cans
we tumble, dunk, & spin,
climbing rocks in a
warm beer buzz,
closest we’ll come
to being mermaids
we grab branches
wrists rocks ankles
each other’s handles
even if we didn’t know
each other yesterday
we climb out of
the river scraped
& shivering, already settling
into the sleepy
joy of water hours

how i feel about me
don’t have to have much
of nothin’ to do with you,
unless i choose.

how you feel about me
don’t have to make me be
what you want to see in me.

ain’t one single “rule” I got
to follow
i can be me, whether
you like it or not. i 
choose.

don’t have to care what you say,
what you think,
what you want.
only i can be me–
see?

but that ain’t the whole story,
now is it? ’cause this story
ain’t only about me–
in fact,

if there is one lesson i’ve learned
on this trip through what-ever-this-is,
it is this–

the more i give away,
the more space there is in
me
to recieve.

and can’t nobody stop me
from giving all.

hard with inane
                     then
        serious love

let two moons
                  march
      man for man

been by many 
                  many
      from a word
                  of ash

for time believes
                        in 
            basic ice.

man and monday
               connect
          the sample

     the other half
                       arch
                  the sea
                           or

mother the house
                  without.

dark Kentucky Theatre
we wait for the marquee
to light up

The way I remember it

which could

of course

be wrong

is that he was telling us about his friend

Lew “Sausalito Trash Prayer & The Basic Con” Welch

who walked off the planet and into the woods and…

And I interrupted.

Didn’t mean to.

Hadn’t learned yet

that things you say under your breath

can sorta be heard in a classroom,

things like “That’s how I feel when the poems won’t come.”

“What?” he said.

“Nothing,” I said.

“No, really,” he said, “that’s why we’re here.”

“Ok. Do you ever have days when the poems won’t come?”

“Sure I do. Days. Weeks. Even months sometimes.”

“And whattaya do when that happens?”

“Those,” he said, “those are the days when I try to learn how to live.”

It’s dark now,

nigh onto midnight,

and this is one of those days

when I wish I had learned how to listen.

regal crowns of bone
grow quick
from our heads.
we are deep
in the velvet now.
soon we’ll see
gore
strung from trees–
blood
staining our hands.
we itch
and claw
and peel back
the skin–
as though to
shed our youth.
tails raised in terror,
bounding back
to the comfort
of being unknown.
it looks painful.
and it is.
but it hurts
in different ways.

A mama’s pride
Grapples
Between living the life and
The struggle is real,
Between warm familiarity with who they are and have always been
And shock and awe at who they are discovering themselves to be,
Between unwavering alliance and unflinching questions.

A mama’s pride
Juxtaposes grinding, grueling effort
With the most natural, effortless things I do.

A mama’s pride primps, glitters, spins,
Trips on a litter of frustration and fear.

My child tests the waters beyond the closet door,
then dives heart first into the alphabet soup.
My tentative cheer, true and tumultuous, takes my breath away,
A rainbow mama jolted by rainbow drama.

Sometimes my hackles rise
At a message implied:
Parents are to be seen and not heard
Cliche turned on its head
A tug-of-war between their wisdom and mine.
Between listening cuz they know themself best
And insistence that I can remind them who they are when their vision blurs.
Between honoring their lived queer experience
And teaching through mine — cis and hetero though it may be.

They seek the uniquely undefinable definition of gender-free
Most of the reasons resonate with me
I’ve never cottoned much to fitting what a woman is “supposed” to be

And yet
I can’t completely fathom needing to reject gender to feel free,
Grieve that they’re erasing their name from the woman club with me.
My mind won’t erase that they are my baby girl and will always be.

A hot thought crosses my mind
Absurd resentment threatens to gag me
When she decries I’ve misgendered her —
*sigh*
When they whisper I’ve misgendered them.
Can’t deny my words don’t always comply
A defiant ”Fine! I’ll just close the conversation
Never talk about this child, to this child.”
Tie a hard knot in the tangled mess of yarns woven into my daily life
About the force of nature “she” woven inside of me

But
To silence the heart-to-hearts would tear us apart.
I refuse to bind my tongue against the ties that bind
So I live with the frustration
Of being called out for a habit as automatic,
As innocuous as
Kids at school calling me “mom”
Or a parent running down the list of names before landing on the right one
Or a verbal trip of “sir” instead of “ma’am”
Because building connection
Is more important than avoiding imperfection
And it’s immature to flinch at the corrections
When I know they come from a desire to be truly seen.

I think my brain will always see “she” as greater than, truer than “they”,
“They” too similar to “it”, not a person, but a thing.

Still, who am I to decide what makes them feel most alive?
Why can’t I ignore the itchy sensation I feel,
Let it go just as easily as last season’s clothes
That no longer fit or the message no longer applies?
They’re just words
And they’re hers after all…
Theirs after all.

You have to wear a shoe to know if it fits
To feel if it scrunches your toes or
Makes you smile to feel your power.

Through all the struggles, all the questions,
Their patient explanations and dogged corrections,
I am always, always on their side.
No matter the aspects of themself they discover and identify
As they grow more into exactly who they are meant to be
I pray that they always feel
My love, my pride
Glow and
Grow unconditionally
Like the biggest rainbow
In the clouds of doubt.

Segovia & Fuzzy Moths

Take me to light infused shadows swaying
just before dawn & I will
see the dazzling moths that tremble
at my ragged porch screen like Segovia’s
fingers creating vibrato.  Do not

disdain them.  Some say the furry
creatures enchant & beget
small doorways & if you can hand
your fear to them like a little
bible, they will bless you
with night trips, take you to rare
& sometimes faraway places. Over the rushing

river to the rest stop by the prairie
dogs, over the barbed wire to a quiet
cafe lit with blue neon. Before
you know it, with the ruffling
of their patterned wings, you are flying over
a jagged mountain range to a dusty
barn outside of Yakima. You are
on an Ecuadorian train from Quito
to Cuenca & back home trudging
the Kentucky mountainside looking
for goldenseal, wild orchids & stinging
nettle.   I have spoken

to you of Segovia’s hands.  Do you
know they looked ordinary, a little
puffy even? When he placed
them gently on the nylon strings of his 1914
Ramirez, his left hand wrapped
around the black ebony fingerboard & the long
journey began. Just like the fuzzy
moths his fingers formed
entryways, openings & escapes. Remember
always, there are passageways
& gates. They are hidden but never
go away. Search at dusk, listen
closely for vibrato, tremolo,
the ruffling of moth.