Sounds I’d Make if I Were a Bird
what to do what to do
what to do what to do
hurry up hurry up
hurry up hurry up
what to do hurry up
hurry up what to do
what to do what to do
what to do what to do
what to do what to do
what to do what to do
hurry up hurry up
hurry up hurry up
what to do hurry up
hurry up what to do
what to do what to do
what to do what to do
On our return
up from the sea
Viltelbo teaches me
the Spanish name
of every bird,
every bush,
every tree.
rough pavement hot
beneath our feet,
the hills above us
billowing green,
though bluest blue
the heavens seem,
from one white wisp
there sprinkles rain.
he smiles to tell
me not to fret,
his cloudy eyes
sparkle a bit,
“the sun is hot
and so it sweats.”
Although it is called the century plant, it typically lives only 10 to 30 years…Near the end of its life, the plant sends up a tall, branched stalk, laden with yellow blossoms….The plant dies after flowering, but produces adventitious shoots from the base, which continue its growth. — Wikipedia
Agave americana,
You
tower
over
our
New
Mexico
Court-
Yard,
Unnoticed for weeks, years, decades.
Now we wait for your flowering
And your death.
We did not terminate
Your push toward destiny
To cut your stem
To tickle our tongues
With sweet aguamiel
Or—selfish—seek
Brief intoxication
With your pulque.
Rather we’ve borrowed
From your patience,
Silent with sprouts and spines,
To wait for blossoms.
Might I, at 73,
Begin some green project
With adventitious shoots
That,
Decades hence
Will flower?
You
Your name was
Carley
You were our
waitress.
I did not
tell you
you were beautiful.
Your short, hugging
skirt, barely
below your hips,
exposing cheeks
as you bent to
serve drinks,
said enough about that subject.
I told you
I was going to write
a poem about you.
You said you look forward
to reading it. I said
you never will,
and with nothing else,
drank my moscata
(Italy). I gave a tip
as I exited the bar
far from home.
If you ask me,
“How’re you doing today?”
And I say “I’m great!”
Let me translate:
It was Wordle in three that day.
If I say “I’m fine”
You can bet your last dime
It was Wordle in four, OK?
If I say “so-so”
Or “Fantastic, you know?”
It was Wordle in five or in two.
If I only grunt,
I am putting it blunt:
It was Wordle in six. Boo-hoo.
If I don’t respond
Then it must correspond
With a Wordle that didn’t get solved.
And while I’ve never done
A good Worldle in one,
If I do, then
You know I’ve evolved.
Before I died in that house fire,
I was what my grandma called
a little comedian. I found I could
twist my mouth and rub
my round kid belly in such a way
people found it funny.
That laughter — like Cheetohs
and Ding-Dongs to my soul.
Before the fire I had already
perfected one routine: what happened
that time my dad caught me smoking.
I pantomimed taking a whole pack of cigarettes
and fitting it in my mouth —
the lighter torching the ends,
me plucking out the twenty with both hands
and blowing a giant smoke ring like a bigwig.
But the funny part of the act,
and I swear it’s true, my skin really turned green
and I’d get woozy, stumble around like a cartoon cat
just hit on the head by a fry pan.
It’s strange, but when I’d lie in bed
I could see a pedestal
like at the Olympics, way off in the future,
and I was standing on it,
high as the seat on one of those old timey bikes
with the giant front wheel.
And then I died.
POP!
Crash!
Before I entered the room I knew it was the fine quality porcelain bisque ornament hitting the floor.
Delicate
A gift from him for Christmas early in our marriage when his love for me was greater than his disbelief.
Symbolic
Each year it was placed high on the branches, out of harm’s way.
Out of reach from wagging tails and later, toddler hands.
Fragile
At season’s end, packed away in bubble wrap and a hard plastic box, preserved for another year.
Beautiful
This year, teenage hands, unaware of the value, placed the orb on lower branches.
And I moved it in an effort to preserve what was not yet broken.
What fucking irony.
is there anything more needed in the search
for remarkable
than what the world supplies each morning
light on trees
sun coloring the creases between shadows
dimensionless darkness
illuminated
And the Robins bobbed across the yard, seeking worms, singing their morning song. Meanwhile, the humans…
I ain’t one to complain…
Then don’t start.
Well, hell, at least hear me out!
Hear what—you not complaining?
Forget it.
Already have.
Good. Next time I have somethin’ to say…
Yeah? Next time what?
Next time I’ll find someone who don’t disrespect me!
This is about what I figured you not complaining would sound like.
I ain’t made of stone you know. I have feelings.
Lord almighty. Feelings? Feelings? How about I give you
something to complain about?
Sure. Go for it. Give me something to complain about.
What? What do you mean?
I mean I’m done with your bullshit. Give me something to complain about
and I’ll give you something back.
Oh really?
Yes. Really. In fact, pack your shit and get out. Right fucking now.
Wait. What? Are you serious?
I won’t ask a second time. Don’t say another word to me. Get out. Now.
And the Robins bobbed across the yard, seeking worms, singing their morning song.
