(a choka)
Pinch your arm real hard;
write down first thing that you scream.
Drown under the sink;
transcribe your mesial gasp.
Press nerve on paper;
draw letters lying around.
Tons and tons of ways
to come up with proper noun!
Tons of ways to go back down.
Where water goes,
so we go, too,
we flow from sky
to mountain
to rivulet through
this twisting,
winding landscape
of home and stone;
You, leading me;
Me, chasing you
He thinks of my son
as his own even though
my boy is 36 & mysteriously
estranged from the family, we don’t
even know why. Could it be
his blood dad never
really put him first
or that I swam
ahead of him treating
him like a fragile
duckling. He was my rare
bird, my wunderkind. Did I
squelch the piece
of him that needed to breathe, fly
or just plain relax? I imagine
him — my flawless son, my runaway,
my prodigal. I release
a handwritten message by way
of carrier pigeon. Until you return,
it reads. I am holding
a father for you.
I saw an isolate, angry cloud
swirling , and receiving patterns
in the water below shouted
cry havoc and release the kraken,
a something Lovecraft when the warmth
above met the North Atlantic brack water—
black in the night. True to form,
I sailed with a moon most grateful;
there were ice edges about me,
with hopes of a guitar to accompany me.
My fingers, though. I heated them
over kerosene, and they remained
solid and fixed like a Polaris or a Sirius
with Orion declaring his witness.
I wouldn’t be out here looking for her,
weighing us down, weren’t I a sentimental
fuck. It doesn’t get any better sweet one;
I see tide, the call of a blue eye twinkling,
the sunshine of blonde hair on the water,
the lie as deep as it goes with towers
10 years of octopi high.
One is filled with cozy night indoors,
Sipping hot drinks by a warm flickering fire,
The other is has night of relief,
Bathing in the cool air of the A/C,
Blessed by the blades of a fan,
One has snowball fights and beautiful icicles,
The other has beaches and painful burns,
One is calm and takes a slow pace,
The other is fast and full of noise,
Winter is free from disturbances,
Summer has bothersome insects,
So yes,
Winter > Summer
Sometimes
the best thing to do
isn’t
in line with
the best thing
to do;
there is
always a choice, and
it is
the only
thing you can do.
Sometimes.
My husband told me
