Posts for June 22, 2021 (page 4)

For me, it’s easier to repeat than to change–
in the hospital, I ordered the same lunch each day–
and it’s not like I lack variety in taste. My range
is broad as anything else, like the horizon over the lake in May.

In the hospital, I ordered the same lunch each day–
a broiled piece of chicken. Some potatoes with salt-free salt
tastes fine, as broad as anything else. Like the horizon over the lake in May,
it’s easy to be a placid thing no one could fault.

A broiled piece of chicken and potatoes with salt-free salt
for lunch is fine. So is the apartment I’ve shared for years–
it’s easy to be a placid thing. No one could fault
me for being content. I guess different is just another fear.

The same lunch is fine. So is the apartment I’ve shared for years,
for me. It’s easier to repeat than to change
being content. I guess different is just another fear,
and it’s not like I lack variety in taste, my range.

beautiful tulips
borrow their sheen from the dead
crushed bulbs underneath

One steady line
kissing east and west,
our fingers interlocked, etching
tiny tic marks
facing north and south
set to determine
our course—
scribbling
and deleting  
to see if we
first
run out of lead
or eraser.

own your wyrd refrains the gods in my ear
and nothing more; it was goodwill that lent
me the lesson after the double knot
in the dress i just bought was the same kind
of crooked i had tied and untied lots
before; it was black and green too i mean
what are the odds? i am remembering
the web pattern, the chlorophyll inkblots

i already rejected before and 
wore in another worser life and i 
am caught up in the reverse miracle
of it all i scramble to behold it-
the off center bow, recoiled and relooped,
loaded: the same test over and over. 

Explain to me what this is,
this winding back time,
this kicking up old loyalties
where I have no reason, no control.  

It’s like getting drunk and meeting an old lover
forgetting it’s been 25 years,
suddenly swiping key cards in hotel doors,
kicking off high heels and smearing mascara  

in streams of exquisite entropy.  

It’s like looping on a carnival ride,
spinning around, face pressed sideways,
centrifugal force lifting wrinkles
that fall back down when the ride is over.  

What is this thing that haunts me
like the faces of friends betrayed by years,
tears that never fell at the last wave goodbye,
having one more thing to say,  

their blinker flashing on and off as they drive away.  

It knocks me down if I turn my back,
like the ocean, her rhythm and swell, huge,
unpredictable on this small patch of sand.
She is life and death and we float and sink,  

forgetting that the curtains are shear
and the whole world is watching.

Lemon-lime moon drifts on afternoon
clouds    rabbit sniffs clover white
on the outside    saffron on the inside  

impossible bee wafts between sunflower
& goldenrod    over moon dust yarrow
with aqua sky for ceiling  

old woman’s dress buzzes with ocherous
petals    begonia & marigold & hibiscus
their stems & sepals climb sleeves  

like jade flames sailing in a wild
blue yonder of smock    skirt waves
waist shallows    breast rapids  

collar whitecaps    as she cascades over
field    under crescent    step by step
until her shadow inundates landscape  

splashes onto bee & rabbit sending them
leaping & thrumming to amber hive    swarthy
warren while twilight powders hills  

with its crepuscular electricity.                      

~inspired by the art of Marie Carlson  

Leaden sky hangs heavy over Ashley River.
Hints at rain. Moisture-laden wind promises it.
I, water-uneasy, hope for whitecaps: small crafts
cancellation. Blackwater waves tease white, stop shy
of cresting. I worry-shuffle dock edge, puzzle
an entry to this plain-white, canoe-like longboat.  

I contemplate staying dockside  

but instead with eight newbies, line up, life-vested
secure and shiver in February cool mist.
Seasoned veterans separate us in three sections:
First section: leaders (set rhythm of stroke and pace)
Second section: engine room (pace determiners)
Third section: rockets (power, propel boat forward).  

I am a rocket.  

Long-haulers— caller, steerer, another rocket —
board, our count now: twelve sister warriors, two abreast.
Paddles up! Boat breath quickens. Take it away! I
reach/lean forward, extend over choppy water
water-bury my blade deep: hard-pull parallel.
My radiation-inflamed pectorals rebel.  

I groan.  

My seatmate reassures: We’ve all been where you are.
You’ll get through this. I hard-push the edge, breathe beyond,
drive paddle deep, stroke back, muscles resist…release.
Stroke – Stroke – Stroke – caller voice-drums cancer-defying
cadence. Line steady we forge forward, fire-breathing
women red-scaling our plain white boat, our paddles  

grow dragon claws.  

Our heartbeats drum, fire finding water. Let it run…       

Deyni sent me a text today.
Her English leaves a lot to be desired.
My Spanish is a total of five or six words.

We manage with online translations.

She most always begins with;
Hola rudy
Como esta
Soy deyni

I process images stored in my head:
Deyni at the waterfalls,
or standing with an active volcano,
steam rising in the background

I have no idea whether she has
stored any images of me
in her head

if I have hope of one,
it would be of me,
walking beside her
to the outdoor market

with no worries about
gangs,
for they know her father
well

Growth is recognizing the parts of myself
I would rather not think about.
Growth is standing up for myself
a little bit more than I used to.

But when I’m laying in bed
the TV sounds like my mom’s voice.
And sometimes I still flinch
when someone walks past my door.

Unfair is you growing for eighteen years
while I struggled to survive in my own house.
Unfair is you becoming a person
while I was abused into constant numbness.