Posts for June 1, 2022 (page 13)

Language is more than

Writing letters–
Making sounds.

Anyone could do that
             (given the chance)
But few can use their vocal cords
and their mouths
and their tongues
and their hands as tools,
contraptions of sorts.

A hammer
             to make their way through
Deaf ears
And closed minds.

A screwdriver
            to tighten up
what’s keeping together
Our humanity.

Language is more.

Oh, so much more.

It is
the music played
based on the score

Of the performer’s deepest self.

Someone told me today that I look “so happy” 
I smiled back at her
attempting to block her ability to see right through me. 
Can she see that this smile is the mask of a fraud?
That underneath 
I am as low as I’ve ever been. 

Of course everyone understands
what it feels like to grieve a person who isn’t gone in the most literal sense the word
And yet no one does. 
Because how do you mourn the loss of someone no one knew you had? 
How do you fight the demons no one knew existed? 

I feel like a guest star on Supernatural 
fighting off beings that are trying to kill me 
that can’t be seen by anyone around me. 

Only Sam and Dean aren’t coming to my rescue. 
Nobody can
Except her. 

It’s the trickiest thing, fighting off a ghost
Nothing tells you it’s there
but you can feel it’s presence around you at all times
lurking behind you 
stalking you
And you can’t escape it

I can’t escape her.
Her scent lingers on everything she’s touched
I hear her laugh echoing in the back of my mind
intruding
creeping into my deepest thoughts 
Forcing me to think of her. Always. 

Her voice attempts to calm me
washing over me
numbing me
surrounding me. suffocating me. 

Until she finally takes my breath away

The summer days have lost 
their Maypole grip and fly 
chaotic, only to land crumpled 
beside nineteen little bodies 
on their classroom floor— 
every life a song, a light 
gone out.  

I am stunned by the stumbling 
of those drunk on power 
left wanting in judgement 
by their addiction, lamed 
and floundering.  

We, too, flail as we drown in lament: 
families, classmates, casket makers— 
all of us victims in perpetual circles 
ripples of the madness of a man
and his guns. 

Four words.

Many Penns — too right.
Turite mini pins?
Two wry T-money PINs.
Minnie pens to write

forwards. For words.

Like an iguana stretched
in the sun my body
drapes the backyard
lounge. To the east
a wet-weather waterfall shoots
down Big Mountain, a raucous
symphony — sticksnap, windchurn,
rockthunder.  At the Lobelia
a hummingbird. Under the bunched
black pines rabbits hop, dash
& disappear in the dim
undergrowth. My gaze drawn
to the windowsill
where a mud-colored
spider respins a broken
web. Dear God,
show us how to rebuild
this splintered world.

I want to soothe the ache out of your skin.

I want to make you well with my magic.

I want to blossom into your irises each morning 

as you wake, letting you know it’ll all be okay.

I want to pour your first cup of coffee the way you like it,

dark as tar and as strong as I can stand it.

I want to stand in your doorway, watching as you get dressed

for a day neither of us can predict.

I want to make you safe with my magic,

but we both know that’s not up to me.

Years. 

Years of sitting in padded pews,
dozing as different men 
screeched about all the ways

I wish I could can summer
To be opened all year through
Bottle its warmth and sweetness
Just a little spoonful will do

I’d pick it like a peach
Caress it in my hands
Inhale the sweet scent
Of sea, salt, and sand

I’d peel it back in layers
Like husks on corn
Feel toes in grass, a warm breeze pass
Like a new summer day being born

I’d crush it like a tomato
To release all flavor
Taste watermelon, and grilled burgers
Each bite, I would savor

I’d cook it up like berries
Spread around the sweet preserves
Generously slather on long, full days
When short winter days bother nerves

Open up a jar
To be warmed by the sun
Feel heat on skin, dive right in!
And have a little fun

Stir up a bit of laughter
On those sober, chilly days
Recall the freedom of summer
When life feels cold and gray

We stood beneath a string of globe lights
a row of orange-hued suns vanishing into space.
I was wearing my first real suit,
gray, too long in the sleeves.
It was a party — no, a reception.
Someone had gotten married. 
There was music, and ice in glasses,
a fence beyond which horses grazed —
this was before the storm came
that upturned the tables and nearly
brought down the tent on top of all the guests 
who sought shelter beneath it when the rain first started.
Some of us ran for cover into the barn,
into a dense womb of hay and horse smell.

That night, I planned on telling you that I loved you.
But we were surrounded by strangers. 
So we stood at the entrance of the barn
and watched the rain, the string lights 
flickering and swaying, little comet trails in the wind,
the rain striking the tin roof above us 
and puddling into a thick soup of mud and muck 
that reflected the occasional lightning strike. 
We heard the wild stamping of the horses in the field,
and held each others hands, and I thought, 
this is how life begins. 

I always tried to leave things better than I found them
But I worried I screwed that up with you
Until you found someone else.
So maybe,
I didn’t do
Too badly