The Day Like Clockwork
Kentucky Tall Clock
but small, face
plain, counting the hours
Two young ladies in Washington
One a virologist
and one an expert in proteins
Created something that’s never existed before
tiny little tips shaped like the business ends of viruses
waving on amino threads like kites
Made the mice immune
Amino acids snapping, proteins folding
AI DeepMind suggesting
3d printing
“the sky’s the limit” the ladies said
So when one of your children’s children’s children’s children (sort of)
might find an old magazine at the bottom of a mine
And say “Why don’t I look anything like that?”
They have 10 and I have 14
They have 2 and I have 1
They are black and tan and I am blue
You’ll know the answer:
Two young ladies
i’m a quarter past mental breakdown
he drives away like a sad sack
i’m coughing up blood in the kitchen
later when my face looks fine
Blow on the worry pot
so it doesn’t boil over.
When the surface evens
it becomes a mirror.
Dive below reflection
into an ocean.
Let go the rope,
don’t touch bottom.
A few days away from the task of goodbye–
home, but not home, my mind still busy
with what must come, what must be done.
This new goodbye still ahead, protracted,
one slow step after slow step. There have been
too many in my life.
The clock ticks, the world turns, a strawberry
moon rises in the sky, June will meld inevitably
into the heat of July.
Just now, sunlight falls on mother’s childhood
table, the one I toted home along with so much
else. Great-grandmother’s sewing box here, but
obsolete. Grandmother’s Kodak Brownie I’ll put
on the mantle beside the cracked, black baby shoe.
The sturdy wire egg basket may find another use.
Today, I will pause, walk along the swollen Ohio,
watch debris from other lives float past. There’s only
so many things we can carry from one life to the next.
I leave you the barest words, daughters, and the
rainbow memories of your
brother’s hanging shirts.
Why would you write about a dead dog, Teresa? What the actual hell. Haven’t you noticed?People love dogs. They don’t wan’t to read about a dead dog. You are trying to be “profound”, but you are coming across as an ass. Give it up. Quit trying to make people feel things. If you consider yourself a “poet” (yeah, right!), then write about things like castles and flowers and mysterious men. Leave the damn dogs alone, Teresa! Is that too much to ask? Or are you going to insist on writing poem after mother fucking poem about some dead dog? Give it up, for Christ’s sake! Dead dog. Might as well write about some mother losing her baby. I can’t get over it. Please, I’m begging you–stop writing about dead dogs!
Wait. What? Your dog died? Your dog? He died? Shit. Wait. Hey. I take back everything I said, okay? I’m sorry. I had no idea. I’m sorry, Teresa. You know how I love your poetry. Please keep writing–that’s a great way to get it all out. I’m sorry. How about we go have drinks? My treat. I will pay. Let’s get wasted, girl! First, I need to swing by the pet store though–I’m out of dog food for little Petey. You don’t mind, do you?
I feel grief’s waves
Pushing through me
As if this world was fluid
And changing all the time
And these little dark shells
Are being left to remind me
pinkish-orange
beige-rust light terra
cotta blonde-tan
attempt to mix
variants of shades
unfamiliar to my palette
I savor each squeeze
a dab of titanium
white cadmium yellow
quinacridone crimson
then blend
and the quest for perfect
mix of white and tubes
of assorted blues
to describe the grandeur
of this sky
add yellow medium azo
napthol crimson for colors
of rock and mesa
blend
look for better
options in my desert
paintbox
Shhhh! Do you hear the whispers?
ones that taunt, laugh and persuade
they are here, there, everywhere
as I latibulate with my face to the wall
Sometimes they chant a single word
in chorus or in perpetual canon
until the sound overwhelms my thoughts
Shhhh! Do you hear the whispers?
The sopranos ridicule the insecurities
the altos deride the sense of worth
the baritones instigate my penance
ones that taunt, laugh and persuade
As I eat the bland offerings from the tray
or wash in the monitored shower
or swallow the mix of pills without water
they are here, there, everywhere
Countless efforts to mute the chaos
redeemed by a single contraband pencil
to destroy the tympanic membranes
as I latibulate with my face to the wall
