Secret Chemist Of The Garden
After last nights rain
The garden is full and fragrant
As if the light and the water
And the earth worked together
To offer this scent to the wind
Which finds me here now
After last nights rain
The garden is full and fragrant
As if the light and the water
And the earth worked together
To offer this scent to the wind
Which finds me here now
The light flickers and the shadows dance.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
His body freezes into a trance.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The frigid air covers the expanse.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
As the specters begin their advance.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
To reclaim their birthright to the manse.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
He cowered lowly to sneak a glance.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Yearning for the sliver of a chance.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The diaphanous ghosts looked askance.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
He trembled in fear beneath their chants.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Heart palpitating in sharpened rants.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
They devour him until he can’t.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
the beat of feet on earth
through sky-
through thin
crowing air.
there only some grey
birdcall-
so cold
dusty and low.
long sticks make cold
running bones-
they hold
and spill
when the water comes
light/heavy
over
the edge.
Preferring canned vegetables & frozen
meats such as fish sticks, my mother
wasn’t much of a cook, but she had a medley
of specialties—Sloppy Joe’s for a Saturday
lunch, pecan pie with whipped
topping for my sister’s
birthday, lemon meringue
for me. There were times
she rejoiced like a teen—the first time I got an S
instead of a U for conduct or when my sister
paraded with the junior
marching band down Main clutching her new
clarinet, the blue & gold wool uniform drenched
with sweat but she’d hit
all the high notes. That’s when
mama plunged into her recipe
box hunting for a clipout
for apricot bars. The instructions
were cut with pinking
shears from Redbook, stained
from splats of preserves & pure
vanilla. I remember spooning
walnuts & sugar into the sticky
orange concoction & then spreading
big blobs of it over buttery
hand-pounded dough. The zippy
tang of them so unlike the sweet & mushy
homegrown peaches in our factory
town with its 1950s bricks & three
stop signs. We can’t grow
them here, mama explained
as they bubbled in the oven. You have
to go to Mexico for fresh ones & most
are grown further away—Turkey,
Armenia, Morocco. I imagine mama
looking up apricot in the Book
of Knowledge & grabbing
the M volume to find Morocco. The coy
grin when she announces,
Now these are exotic.
That one walks around
with mustard up his nose,
for what, who would know?
His fiance has the cockroach,
so they say. She feels the fir.
I have lightning bolts for them.
Even if they do run on my beans,
they are quite private.
Tell me why
I can feel your fingers on my skin,
when sometimes it seems like
they were never there?
Tell me why,
when my husband touches me,
I am terrified
it’s you behind me
come to finish
what you started?
I loved you,
trusted you,
and you swallowed that
like it was candy,
sweet on your tongue
and good for the soul.
And then you tainted it,
you bastard,
and because I am naive,
I let you.
Because I was a
child
I let you.
And then I forgot,
because forgetting
was better than
looking at myself in the mirror—
seeing damaged goods
and violated innocence.
I forgot because
my mind
could not understand
why your hands
were on my body
in places
they did not belong.
One day,
I will tell you
exactly what you did
because it seems
that you, too,
have forgotten.
But I remember now.
And I am angry.
I will raze your fields,
sound the battle cry,
and rip out your heart
with my teeth.
But first, the world will know,
that you,
Mr. Hyde,
are a child molester
and a pedophile.
And then the world will know
that I
am a survivor.
The child swaddled in colorful weaves played scales
on the oud lute in concert to the feast while the rials loosed
to him were flowing, rich, and generous.
The cymbal rushes of the riq and the dum tak tak talk
of the clay skin drum moved them to dance, and give again,
so that the poor boy declared to his mother Allah is Generous.
But no drum came to whisper or thrum such immense joy
as the coins of silver and gold in their pockets, evenings,
when the porters brought out the wine—a vintage generous.
When the bloom of shiraz was poured, rich and silky patrons
broke their fast, and the Sufi lords danced against the customs
of all the peoples who dared not be generous
with their forgiveness, their love, fettered by bookish piety,
as with the sultan’s refusal of clemency in the final hour.
Such as these will not find that the Lord is Generous.
Give, give to the child raking the strings with the eagle feather,
flying over minaret on a carpet carrying girl, genie,
and music—let him find you dying with a heart generous.
I tell you when, and how you will deny Me. I abandoned
you not, I sing for you nightly. I am beginning and end
of this night’s ministrations, given to you in generosity.
Joey you need to get
ready today for your
makeup piano lesson.
I can’t do it. It’s the
wrong day and the
wrong time. I can’t go.
Well your teacher is
expecting us at 2pm
and we don’t want to
disappoint her.
It’s just not right! Is she
taping us again? Will I
be on the internet? Well
I’m not wearing makeup!
