Posts for June 10, 2022 (page 3)

In a honeymoon town
Sun burns soaked.
I didn’t mind them:
The heat, a quiet
Haze of calendula,
And sticky aloe,
The crushed bodies
Of male mosquitoes 
Sheathed in the door
When the Elantra’s
Windows roll down.
Singing hyperpop 
And shoegaze
As we let the gulls
Chase our car 
To the bay
To watch a redneck
Burn holes in the sky,
Palms silhouetted
In technicolor fire.
Your outline torches
Through my shut eyes
And glass of Arizona tea.
You look too untouched
By sand and sun and salt
To be here in the dunes.
Your breath tastes sweet as
Affogato and cookie dough
In a double scoop
With just a hint of
The melted cherry lip balm
Glistening at your Cupid’s bow.
Your hands feel like sunshine
Soft and satisfying;
And when you leave
Your absence burns,
Stinging and blistering,
And I itch to peel away
Every part of my skin
You have touched
And loved.

My home’s resident calico
sports as many aliases as the colors
of her mesmerizing coat.

Miss Lady struts into a room in the dappled
spotlight of an afternoon sun
as glamorous as any Hollywood starlet.
Sweet Baby curls into a purring
orb of fluff, chin turned toward the heavens,
paws outstretched to catch sparrows chirping behind her twitching lids.
Jasmine Myrtle can murder
charging cords and Christmas lights,
her only consequence the humiliation of her reviled
middle name.  L’il Jazz perches on the kitchen table’s edge,
begging for ear scratches after a day of playful mischief.

Yet whatever moniker the moment demands,
she’s still our precious Jasmine,
the princess of our court.

The setting sun’s orange glow peeks through the thick canopy above me.
It illuminates the lake’s inky surface and I stand alone at the water’s edge while a cool breeze traces my body and blazes a trail of goosebumps along my skin.

I shiver and shake the mounds flat,

The sun dips low and the sky blazes with color as the sun sets
Life readies itself for rest as darkness descends
One day ends and a new day waits on the horizon

If we had the back story 
behind every smiling photograph 
that flashes across social media, 
how would it change us?

Would we feel more responsible?
Realize our inadequacies as humans,
parents,  partners,  members
of our society ?

I see the shining bright eyed
dazzling smiles of my daughters, 
but I know their story and the miracle 
of their beautiful souls isn’t lost on me.

KW
6/10/2022

At their auction,
besides her face, 
the Amish know Rosemary 
only as Buyer 333.
Retired, she goes at least twice a week.

Today, bidding begins on a flat of annuals,
grows heated and fast
between 333 and 527. 
The folks in front of Rosemary shift position
to ogle another flat,
revealing that rival 527 is an old neighbor
who Rosemary hasn’t seen in Lord knows how many years,
and, as the auctioneer raises the bid,
Rosemary points to 527 and smiles,
ceding the sale to her.

Instead of accepting the final bid,
the Amish auctioneer stops mid-call,
tips his black straw hat back a little
to look 333 straight in the eye,
and, with a Pennsylvania Dutch bite,
scolds, “There    are    no    friends    at    the    auction!”

Sitting here, waiting for the tiny patch
of uterus I have left
to discharge its bit, still under my ovaries’ rulership. It
might happen in hours. It might happen in days.
For weeks, Roe v. Wade has been under the shadow of death.
This is no exaggeration, despite my emotional state. My state;
this place that pleads common-wealth
but portrays next-to-nothing like that. I pour
out energy like libations, praying in my way
for protection & defense of covenant-blood family.
Weary bones have no strength left to summon water
to eyes, despite the bodily abundance. Texas
wanted to pay bounties
to those who report women
who simply keep uterine sovereignty
past six weeks. I have three
unopened packs of morning-after blessings.
I have friends
who have friends, funds, and connections
even in these years of plague.
I could dissemble in dry sobs,
but instead, close my eyes & feel for deities’ light:
there; Freyja seethes, Frigga soothes,
& Eir resignedly shoulders her herb-basket
palms her sickle and sets off,
humming a tune that somehow reminds:
only we can make this right.

My honeyed thoughts drip slowly,

wrinkles
and winces
shaking hands 
and weak backs
tired eyes
and shortness of breath 
perhaps I was too young to understand 
or perhaps I just didn’t want to think about the way
the body ages 
and the fading of the people I love