My memaw used to teach me the words
to “Rocky Top,” how to clog my feet
like a wind-up doll. I loved
to holler my keen voice high–still
do–to the Osborne Brothers and other old songs,
though my feet nowadays are more clod
than clog, more like the dirt on the farm
outside than something that could produce
a dance, a beauty in motion.
“I’m tired, ” said Coping Skills.
“I feel ya,” yawned Empathy “me too.”
“Let’s all take a nap!” suggested Avoidance.
“A really, really, really long nap,” remarked Hopelessness.
“Nothing important going on today. We won’t miss a thing!” Manipulation chimed in.
snuggle snuggle push press
shift roll sneeze snort
“Hey guys, hey guys….we really shouldn’t be sleeping all day. Did you turn off the air fryer? What happened to that little bottle of shampoo from our trip 2 years ago?” Anxiety whispered. “I mean what ever happened to Carrie Thornton from 3rd grade and I don’t think we’ve changed the oil in the car for months and I’M SURE the milk is outDATED, oh MY GOD I FORGOT to give the dog HIS PILL TODAY THE ELECTRIC BILL WAS DUE YESTERDAY WE WON”T HAVE POWER IN THE MORNING…………………………………………..”
Small yellow curls
At around 2 pm
on a drippy humid day
driving on Oak
somewhere near Shelby or Clay,
there’s an unmarked bar
with black, smoky windows.
I see a man in jaunty straw hat
stagger towards his gray Cadillac,
parked out front,
already too far from the curb.
As he tries and tries to pull
the door open on the driver’s side,
another man twice his size, huge
broad fighter shoulders,
pushes open the heavy red window-
less red door of the bar,
jumps over the hood,
cold-cocks the guy,
just before the light turns green.
My hands sweaty, tight
gripping the steering wheel.
My body shakes. The scream, silent.
It occurs to me–I have never witnessed
violence like this–except in the darkness
of movie theaters or in our TV room,
lounging on the couch with a glass of wine.
Instead of crossing the intersection,
I make an illegal turn,
cars in back of me pull around
the man, flat on his back,
the concrete boiling up.
What can I do? already late,
to pick up my sick kid from school
in my shiny Saturn wagon.
This kid
in front of me
he’s twelve or thirteen
he sits
waits
for his COVID vaccine
I can handle any needle
he says very plainly
as he rolls up his black T-shirt sleeve
his brother goes to school here
Grant County High
it’s his very first time in the building
a rock star
his dad says
as soon as it’s finished
not an issue at all
and thanks for the band-aid.
You can’t frame or label me.
I will not hang desperately wanting to run free.
I will not sit in a museum for years on end.
I will not be put in storage, ever.
I will not ever be the new Mona Lisa.
I’m trying to write a love poem
and someone outside
keeps pounding
like the way
thoughts of you
make my heart beat.
I’ve been distracted by work
all day,
unable to keep my mind
on poetry.
And I want you.
And I miss you.
And I’m trying to write a love poem
even though my phone is already
littered with them.
And now there’s music
like the song of you
I can’t get out of my heart.
And I don’t know
if I should find you
or let you be.
And I’m trying to write a love poem
despite my poor attention span
and my lack of any theme
besides you
and how I was
silent
when the right words
could have opened doors.
And I’m trying to write a love poem
as if some day you’ll read it,
as if it will bring you back,
as if the language of the heart
could be translated.
And someone’s yelling.
And I feel your arms around me,
I taste your lips on mine,
I melt into you.
And what the hell are they building
out there?
Don’t they know
I’m trying to write a love poem
and maybe if I get it right,
it will be the last one I write
and then maybe I can move on
to haiku,
which is much less taxing.
Don’t they know
I’m drowning in confusion,
uncertain if I’m just diving deeper
into this desire
or trying to remove you
from my heart
like scraping gum off a shoe?
Is this a salve
or is it salt
I’m pouring on my own wound?
I’m trying to write a love poem
because we both deserve one,
because my heart is overflowing
and I can’t hold this inside much longer.
And I’m looking for catharsis
and I’m looking for relief
like the silence that finally sets in
when I’ve almost finished a love poem.
This is my time machine
reaching out to you,
hoping you’ll hear these words,
on whatever plane of existence
you inhabit now.
I just wanted you to know
I’ve been writing a love poem
just for you.
Only for you.
Here comes, in rosy rungs,
ascents of the day
from east over small waves
broken on the bay rock shapes.
Sun corona fingers
find day, rock by rock
and feel down for corals.
Out there humpbacks
rise to their footprints,
the sun a sweet tickle
cows teach their calves
to play in.
If loved ones were more
forthcoming with their
true feelings, would we cram
our heads with the amount
of albums
books
essays
films
poems
that we do?
Do we use these chapters
episodes
lines
refrains
songs
as a manual to understand
them better or do we
do I,
convince ourselves
myself,
that we can
I can,
do what they cannot
or will not?
stop scratching
you tell the 5 year old,
think about something else
you know Gigi, I can think about
more than one thing at a time
she says
