From the innermost
Cave of her being
Nothing grew
All was barren of life
Salted by rocks
That stood and hung
Dripping innermost tears
Collecting pools of grief
Puddling as lakes filled with pain
Anguish rippling along the surface of amongst the sandy floor
Pain bellowed here in this quiet
A loud roar but as a whisper that echoed only for her to hear
With wind sweeping in and out
Like how leaves move in their hysteria
Barely hanging on to their limbs
Earth knew her pain, sat with this before
The moss stood tall, raising its body from sleek rocks
Feeling the electricity in the air
The anger the Earth felt
The pain she kept buried inside these caves
Hidden under rock
Shadowed by the sunburnt leafs above
Thunder echoed
Reverberated against the ribs of the mountains
Battering, clanging
Rising up in the her throat
Crying out over a leafy canopy
Then her cries hailed down through the green
Washing down the pain
Cascading creating a thick muck
Onto the earth below
Preheat the oven to three-seventy-five
and oil the pan. Stretch the pizza dough
with the heft of your hands–
a mandala of sorts. Fill the holes
with dough from the thickest parts–
here, the kitchen smells like yeast–
then dock & prebake for just enough time
to chop half a shallot, to prepare
the sauce and toppings for dispersal.
In six minutes, spoon the sauce
like your mother taught, spreading
concentric circles from its middle.
Sprinkle herbs. Toss the cheese.
Top the pizza with the veggies, meat–
however you please–it’ll be just fine
in another fifteen minutes, reliable
when so many other things just
aren’t.
One small stripy nuthatch
Landed in my lilac
And dallied the morning
In song and sweet
Web of blooms
Behind enemy lines
I wrestled words
Onto the page
(I was losing)
I finally stood and walked
To the open window
Focusing on the bird
Its delightful offering
Of joy unleashed
Glittery words suddenly
Pirouetted and whirled
Through lacy leaves
Of that soothing music
As I rethought the simple
A place of peace
The slant of sun
Nature’s perfume
Who could resist
Telling that story?
is breath
a song
she can bloom
jewel in a field
bending under
the lip of light
looking to forget
* Erasure of Sally Rosen Kindred’s poem “Self Portrait at Eighteen as Weather Receding.”
Daddy’s dead but the wash is still wet,
so Mama and I stand side by side
at the strand of fence wire strung between the pecan trees
in the orchard late this breezy afternoon,
her mouth full of clothespins
so no word between us, no sound at all
but our breathing in, breathing out
as I hand her my cloroxed T-shirts to hang on the line,
the wind filling their sleeves as if with shoulders,
our own shoulders touching,
our own arms splayed like the limbs of these trees
that have sheltered us all our lives,
holding off the setting sun.
we stripped bark to weave hammocks
ate river fish(?) cooked over sandbar fires
stared into a milky purple sky expecting dreams
to blaze across it any second
yet they did not
and we did not speak
fearing broken silence would
stop our hearts,
would carry our souls to the creatures
that circled now in this other sun’s sky
so we walked, and swam
plucked berries, and trapped fish(?)
skinned more bark
dripped silent tears in the dead night
as two moons feasted on our wishes
#SciFiSaturday
I am of the generation
That believed
You will know it is working
If it burns
Pretty
Is painful
Life is
Hard
Love
Hurts
This answers
So many questions
