On the island where I’m from, the poets are the most important people and, of course, everybody is a poet. The poets all wear red and because everyone is a poet, everybody wears red. It is a beautiful island where the people sway like red lilies, or short red poppies, or medium-sized red beebalm in the slight breeze that comes from the ocean that is a little red itself, due to the coral beneath the surface. And twice every day, at sunrise and sunset the sky is red and orange and some purple, too, and the poets come out to sing their poems, the world echoing with their red song.  

I wrote this prose poem today alongside middle school students, inspired by poems by Nin Andrews in her book, Why God is a Woman, all begnning with the phrase, “On the island where I come from….” An example of hers:
http://www.versedaily.org/2015/ontheislandwhere.shtml 

A mouthful of water,
A lung, you promise to give.
Promise what you can’t release,
Never give so long as you live.

A precious lamb to slaughter,
An abattoir the mind’s hive.
Give the gift of pure bliss,
Good intentions is not what makes fate live.

How some ever

one more
toothless cicada bites
the dust. So many,
so expendable.

And I?

sorry i bled on your shirt
it’s hanging over my face
i give you my shirt you’re wearing my jeans
think we still have a good thing going
i’m embarrassed i can’t eat, think i embarrassed you and i embarrassed myself too

and still we are spoons and kiss on the back and share water out of the same glass
you get up to let my cat in the room you and i hold each other until noon
sometimes i cry a lot, i cry a lot

Tongue tied again.

I am different
always was
nothing obvious 
no gimpy limb
or crossed eyes
i am different inside
either too much
or too little

food turns to ash
in your mouth.
your grasp
turns to dust
in my hand.
the harder i try
to hold you
still
the faster this top
keeps spinning.
i can’t
     i can’t
          i can’t.
but you always said
i could
     i could
          i could.
our time rots
and passes away.
these fears turn to statues;
solid as stone.
ivy climbing-
moss growing-
mushrooms blooming.
the screams turn to tears
in our throats.

It’s a 32×45, 3000-piece jigsaw challenge
on my dining table, border and sky finished,
the rest, a riot of images to be constructed:

        Sgt. Pepper
        circus folk on trampoline
        long and winding road
        face in a jar
        ghosts on Abbey Road
        walrus in tuxedo
        yellow submarine.

There’s no room to spread the unattached
bits for survey, the light is inadequate,
the cats have filched several candidates.
Even though I channel my puzzle eye
with sounds of the Fab Four, I manage
only one or two fits per sitting. 

What to do?

Should I soldier on, obeying the maxim
  don’t start unless you intend to finish
in hope of experiencing a satisfying sense
of accomplishment? Or should I reclaim
the table, disassemble what has not been
assembled, store the unvanquished high
on a shelf, pending cravings for another bout
of bewilderment, and essay a modest
1000 pieces on my well-lit puzzle table?

A dilemma!

HELP!

                                                   ‘Trouble with mice is you always kill ’em’
                                                                                                              ~ Lennie

Bread crumbs trail my counter
to the pantry Milwaukee record
snow my new husband sets traps
traipses off to work leaves me
trapped with snow – 3 feet – 4 feet

and mice.

I bundle the bread, can the
crackers, kettle the dried beans –
jar and jug any sweets.

(my husband places shoe
boxes – holes in the sides – over
the traps so I don’t see the

dead mice)

I hear the snaps.  And I wonder why
I am terrified of something sooooooo little –
and grey – and quick – and startling – 
and quiet.

But, why wouldn’t I be?

Maybe it’s just my mind

That flies and scatters like pigeons then lands, just to take flight again.

Or maybe it’s my heart that knows I have to find a smaller compartment for you.

Reduce the oxygen you give me to dampen the fire that otherwise would consume me.

Your love is not fickle,

But it is only mine for a fraction.

I’ve taken my share and hold it tightly