Technology: Isn’t it wonderful!
A Summer Tanager
sings to me
a complicated tune.
I can’t see him, but
because of Merlin
I know he is up there
somewhere
in the canopy.
A Summer Tanager
sings to me
a complicated tune.
I can’t see him, but
because of Merlin
I know he is up there
somewhere
in the canopy.
Pa got mad at Petey the dog
Kicked him hard—across the yard
Petey yelped and run away
He come back sad, in his sad dog way
Pa got a splinter stacking the wood
Ma got her tweezers and pulled real good
Pa yelled as the splinter come out
Ma laughed as Pa stomped about
Pa come to the table when dinner was cold
Me and Lizzy warshed good, like we was told
Petey the dog was under my feet
When Pa weren’t looking, I give him a treat
Pa went to town to get supplies
Lizzy wants to go—she cries and cries
Ma said she could go, and I stayed home
While they was gone, we left–
We found a new home
Two women at a table In Dewing’s time, he could have painted the poetry of them, two woman at a table. His wife would have told him to paint them in a landscape, not lost, but two women on a hillside. The woman seated on the right side of the table, her tan legs crossed, her red, low cut, short dress, covered them, barely, both women, coffee is all they have
ordered. The two of them rhyme, blue eyes, blond hair, one plaited, one falling straight, beautiful both of them,
dressed in red, but no doubt unable to miss the discomfort their presence in the small, city restaurant on Washington street generates, two women at a table.
I walked through on tiptoes
fire-walking across coals
that have smoldered for decades
in my belly stuffed down and buried
with the boar that we feasted on
those the nights so long ago.
We stuffed our bellies,
hand feeding each other
like it was our last meal,
then slept soundly, never waking
to see the destruction.
I plucked the coals from between my toes
and tossing them back onto the fire
so they wouldn’t burn down my house,
so my sons might escape unsinged.
Escape these gates where I am locked away.
Every day a
departure in
pictures so that you see what looks
like
love a
message to
mend you
Please don’t forget
to write
your worth
Adore each
moment
~ Erasure of Frida Kahlo’s Letters to Mama, You Are Always With Me, letter dated November 21, 1930
His momma is a yorkie
and his daddy is a possum.
He runs like a rabbit
and he barks at the moon.
He has crawdads for breakfast
and earthworms for supper.
He eats frogses and mices and
occasional birds.
.
He got hit by the mail truck
and he lived to tell it.
He got bit by a hog snake
in his own backyard.
His momma is a yorkie and
his daddy is a possum
and he wears his daddy’s cologne.
.
He sings like Hank Williams
and he yodels like Patsy.
He never stops barking
unless he’s asleep.
He’ll nip at your heels.
He’s a true ankle biter.
He’ll chew up your shoes
any time that he feels.
.
He stinks to high heaven
and he runs the night fences.
He howls with the coyote
and flies with the owl.
He sleeps on fine linens
and he dreams of fried chicken.
And everyone loves him
in spite of his smell.
.
He got hit by the mail truck
and he lived to tell it.
He got bit by a hog snake
in his own backyard.
His momma is a yorkie
and his daddy is a possum
and he wears his daddy’s cologne.
***Content Warning: Death/Violence
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I refuse to write about dead children.
I can’t write about dead children.
I don’t want to write about dead children.
I’m heartbroken when I attempt to write about dead children.
Why are there always more dead children?
I still refuse to accept that I should write about dead children.
I still can’t write about dead children.
I still don’t want to write about dead children.
I’m too furious to write about dead children.
When will I stop thinking about dead children?
Maybe the way to stop is to write about dead children,
but my pen cannot bring them back to life.
He called the six months he was in jail
his spiritual retreat even though many of the details
are grim, blood curdling. Best to hang
out alone in his cell where he reads
The Little Prince 30 times, teaches
himself to juggle oranges he’d hidden
under his gray metal bed. He invented
a folded paper tree using
a Reader’s Digest & made tiny
ornaments from candy bar
wrappings. One of the problems
with jail is social
management. Who’s in charge? In Maricopa
County it’s the Aryan Brotherhood. The guards
can’t control the rumbles
& spikes of interaction. AB can decide
for you—no integration & if you refuse
their hierarchy one of them will mess
you up bad. After an AB facedown
he came up with a clever
strategy. He told the guards
he was going to hurt
himself or one of the ABs
so they put him in solitary with a hard black
camping mat with a texture like duct
tape. He was safe
& could chant & wail
out loud but people worried
he was losing it. Susan
made an SOS call to prison
outreach & his new surprise
friend came—Rabbi Ernie—who got
to know him chatting
about courage through the food
slot. He convinced
him to stop spooking
the guards with nonsensical
chanting & helped him transfer to the psych
pod where AB activity was minimal
& he spent his time inventing
games with scraps of torn
paper & memorizing blessings
from a Hebrew prayer book, a gift
from Ernie. No matter that he didn’t know
Hebrew, the language was as comforting
as a handknit sweater. He embraced
& believed every word, sure that Rabbi
Ernie, with his jokester
self, gave him attitude
& armor enough to face the gargoyles
of solitary, Ernie
was the only one
God could trust with the toilsome
task of getting him out.
He is obviously drowning.
I bolt from the beach and splash through the surf,
Determined to save him.
He thrashes against the waves.
Now, I see him…now, I don’t.
I paddle, frantic.
As I near him,
He suddenly seems to become buoyant.
But instead of heading back to the safety of the shore,
He strikes out toward the horizon.
I watch, bewildered.
He soon begins to sink again.
Gasping and grabbing at the sky.
Panicked, I paddle.
I reach him.
I reach for him.
He bobs to the surface,
Then kicks, hard, propelling himself,
Out to sea.
Again, he succumbs to the surf.
Again, I attempt a rescue.
Again, he purposefully floats further away,
Until he’s nearly out of sight.
If I follow, I won’t have the strength
To get myself back to shore.
Before turning toward the coast,
I give him one more glance.
He smiles,
As he’s sucked beneath the surface.
Watching him disappear into the deep, I realize,
He never wanted to be saved.
