i saw baby ducks down
at the pond this morning
quacking and gliding as a
golden sun rose above them–
rising into the sky for
a better view
momma duck–or
maybe it was daddy–
was nearby, keeping
watch
Boris the cat was
with me–Boris
noticed the
ducks right away
the ducks seemed
unbothered
the fish were near
the surface, nibbling at
the air, as if to say
do not forget us
i wore my jacket–it
was cold–pulled
it close,
and wished you
were there, too
A hollow beyond the field,
before the woods, too wet to farm,
too small to clear. Useless, until
the beavers moved in. They dammed
the trickle of creek, got a pond
going, built themselves a fine house.
The herons came next, great blue,
little green. The posed for hours, stiletto
beaks pointed at the new water.
Deer and raccoon followed,
leaving heart-shaped, hand-shaped
calling cards in the mud.
Come spring, the shaded banks
glowed with trillium. Come summer,
the trees shone with fireflies.
plow the material world
with an old mule’s resignation.
Muscle life like longshoremen
loading crates of weight.
Walk without solace.
Push the narrative forward.
a sugar ant ran
across my keyboard
made swift line over
touch pad to space bar
<i trapped him in a v>
until zig-zag like an
innocent child outrunning
a crime spree-he found esc
chaste tree
stop here
and see
him red
braided upon
himself
embrace to see
what bark
can hold
wind up here
up hollow)
and the chill
of movie-theatre air-conditioning
in summer
that’s what I missed most
in 2020
besides sharing those moments
with other people.
If you don’t live it, it won’t come out of your horn — Charlie Parker (attributed)
What exactly am I living
when I am playing music
out of my horn, just the way
Bird told it, according to
some, while according to
others, maybe the words
of Bird I carry around with me
were never his to begin with,
and ain’t that just like a bebopper
like Charlie Parker
to lift something from someone else
and riff it into your own as a bit
of theft, and all I’m left with here
to play with is the possibility
that we need to live our days
like stories like song
like improvisational poetry
My husband is never one
to garner confidence.
I tell friends either he’ll lose me
shuffling through customs,
or else armed beagles will hound us
like girls around Larry Mullen, Jr. in the mall.
Perhaps I’ll fall off
the Cliffs of Mohr,
or find myself unconscious
with a gaggle of drunken gypsies
in a caravan.
There are no guarantees anymore,
from all that I have seen.
None.
There Will Never Be Another You plays in my earbuds,
from the plane to the tarmac, and he winks at me
through my armadillo plating. He knows,
and he knows where to go, as if he’d been born here.
Floating off the 145 line near a Luas stop, we walk
to Hotel Fitzwilliam.
I am descended,
and delivered there. It is Morning.
Citrön cafeteria, eggs, stewed tomatoes,
mushrooms, pudding, bacon,
and shower—shower pouring
pressure streaming—
a peerless bed with Butler’s chocolate
on the pillows.
I turn to sleep the day. Wondering,
at everything—
at my brother and the priest guzzling
the communion wine,
at the gossamer paths winding with faeries
in the glinting moonbows,
and wondering still,
afternoon. We are off to a gallery,
off to supper,
and that night he tells me
we are off on a wild, wonderful tour
in the garden of Ireland next morning—
with my grim orthopaedic boot,
guarding a broken toe.
I remember I wanted that,
but Galway bay just a little more—
Not him. Not him.
But why?
I remember the day I wore my favorite orange
dress to his house. My father beamed
while Mother tried to stop me furiously,
“I don’t want grandchildren! Not him. Not him.”
I’ve loved him ever since the day,
and since. I feel safe with him,
if only for moments
in this dream.
“You’re so much like me.
I’m sorry.”
– Ben Folds,
Still Fightin’ It
You called again tonight, as you
have every night since I flew
you to your mom down south
to read. We were following
Percy Jackson and his flock
together, on the winds of another
adventure, new myths woven from old
feathers–when without warning, or even
a word from an oracle, you
rolled–from his story into mine–
a whole other ball of wax.
Yes. Yes, I am readying my wings
for that flight. Finally chasing
daylight to its, and my, origin
story. Out West. And yes, I know
I’ve shared the eighteen year old magick
and you—you believe. Gods, you believe,
more than I, perhaps, believe,
any more.
Such a tight and fine line, we try
to traverse, to cross, in the truth
of who we were crafted to be, as if
Daedelus, himself, designed
these fragile spirits, knit to the backs
of our hearts. And I try
to guide you—to tell you a story
honoring where the V of our joint
pinions intersect—guarding tiny shoulders
that will, that do, hold up the sky
of this world. But we are not Atlas.
And this reality can be too much.
Too much.
How do I hold a thimble over the flame
of your sweet belief? Fan the updraft
of worlds, far-flung, but no less real
to you—to me—despite all
the reasons and the seasons,
sunny days and rain, that will come,
for you—that came and yet come
for me?
How do I explain the joy or the beauty
in what may be, as you say, awkward
if, daring the sun, I find the sea
flooding my eyes and chest? Yes.
Yes, I am readying these wings
and I am lifting—lifting—from the labyrinth
of too many years away from home. But
what can I say if the story takes its twist
and the climax is too brief, the action
falling to a close that falls
short of its prologue?
I want you, at least, to see
being the hero is less about vanquishing monsters
than mastering yourself, your fear,
the expectations of a world
intent on writing your story.
My son: A hero
doesn’t always get the girl. He doesn’t
always, even, have the words
to explain why that’s okay.
But he gets to decide
to try.
He gets to decide
when it is time
for him
to fly.
A vast and wondrous world,
Teeming with life and colour,
While hiding it’s dark and sinister side,
We humans see the best the ocean has to offer,
From the beautiful coral reefs,
To the friendlies of manatees,
What we don’t see is the terrifying beasts of the deep,
Such as the giant squid,
Capable of killing any human,
What we don’t feel is the brutal pressure,
Where a space walk is easier than withstanding the depths,
The ocean is an amazing place,
Filled with just as much wonder,
As it is with terrifying dangers
