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Oh my lost brother,
how many years did I spend
trying to join you?
Breasts are things to fetishize
(In America)
You’re supposed to have two
(If you’re a woman)
of a certain size
(the bigger the better, up to a point)
If you only have one
(like me)
You are someone to shun
(you’re not like the rest of us)
Unless you’re an amazon
(a mythical creature)
I’m just a mere mortal
(hence deformed and shameful)
Not an amazon
(no myths here, just messy truth)
Not a Glamazon
(never been that)
Just me, with one breast
In the home improvement store parking lot,
red-tailed hawk swoops, lands
on a light standard. He’s young,
feathers still scruffy with unshed down.
He folds in his wings, settles in for a rest,
pays no attention to the mockingbird
whose perch he’s just invaded, not caring
that this small bird could be his next meal.
The mockingbird cares greatly. Recognizing
his ancient enemy, he uses his fluency
in bird speak to curse the hawk. He begins
his war dance, flaring wings and tail, hopping
closer to the larger bird, teasing, retreating.
He takes flight, somersaults over the hawk,
circling him again and again, singing melodic
insults, always out of reach of beak and talon.
The hawk takes no notice. He sits there, suffers
the abuse, ignores the scrappy small bird
on the attack. Who knows if David won,
or if Goliath just got bored. In the end,
the hawk, no longer looking young or scruffy,
spreads his wings, lets the air carry him away,
leaves the mockingbird alone
to dance his victory.
We learn
1.
On my days off, my body still wakes
at the same workaday time.
Where I’d normally hit the snooze
to capture fifteen minutes,
instead the whole day stretches blank
before me, gives me thinking hours.
2.
To my nephew a bug is a poem,
Who am I to prove him wrong?
3.
Myself, I move in poems and inches–
the leaves on the oak outside grow and die
on its branches so quick I barely notice them.
I think of the boy one human year ago,
in a different coat, and smaller.
Blink and he’ll be too big to climb.
stark blank canvas a riot of color and shape
tangled vines and shrubs a hidden oasis
urban backyard patio the warm sands of a tropical beach
rush hour traffic jam the tossed sheets of a warm bed beside a lover while
inventing gods
If I don’t write a poem by midnight
I have failed.
If I failed today,
Why try tomorrow?
If I extend myself grace
A poem will be written,
But I’ll question if it’s real,
And I’ll doubt my own success.
Arbitrary rules keep me on the straight and narrow,
And also throw me off track in the matter of seconds.
rushing waters of rage subside
flowing tears now a trickle
screams of sorrow silenced
by the prevailing sense of sadness
words of comfort and peace offered
by sympathetic congregants who share
in our suffering as the gospel is read:
In My Father’s house
are many mansions
we’d settle for a deserted chamber,
a simple place where we could hold
our children once more.
The cry inside a baby screaming.
The beloved in a lover’s mouth.
The gamble in a lifelong cheater.
The endless thirst inside a gutter drunk.
The lift in hungry sail cloth.
The push of warming, whistling winds.
The last sun dipping far below
the tremor of a rattling breath.
The running in the river streaming.
At intervals you chase, not sure what you’ll find
Occasionally separate but at times intertwined
Dismayed I have decided to leave you behind
Sporadically you linger, enveloping my mind
Offering more and not use to being declined
A facade of us exceeding, living combined
Pursuing me in close spaces until I’m confined
Succeeding into the night, anticipating I’m blind
I hear you calling, your voice there to remind
Memories are pressed of you being so kind
Deceptive you become upon being unaligned
A separation between us makes you unrefined
