Everywhere in Vieques mango trees
the fruit with their elliptical shape–
their color its own palette
yellows greens and orange
juicy stringy
ping plop ping
to the ground the mangoes fall
do the mango dance
mango Mango mango
mangomangomango
MANGO
the house next door’s attic morphed into a bat haven.
At the brink of dark, neighbors converged in our front yard, sat in lawn chairs, the kind with woven straps, talked, waited for furred bodies to swoop out the vent. I don’t recall final tallies but remember the soft whir of wings when everyone quieted. Or do I only imagine that sound, how anything dark and woolly that flew or scurried terrified me?
The seat of those braided chairs crosshatched marks on my legs, and I hated their hot rosin stench.
A few years later, that same neighbor’s house caught fire when the children spilled detergent near the furnace. Miraculously, no one was burned, but the house suffered major damage. Firetrucks arrived as people gathered in our front yard, then moved across the street to witness the blaze. I overheard adults predict our home would catch, the structures so close.
The acrid burnt smell lasted months, more intense on windy days. The family left while their home was restored—six months—long as I obsessed over how to flee if a fire skittered upstairs to our dorm-room.
As I tried to fall asleep, I brooded my hatched plan: snatch flat sheet from bed, tie one corner on window crank, throw remainder out window, climb chair, ease out clutching cotton, lower to safety. I’m oldest. If it worked, my three sisters could follow. I’d coach, clasp them when they came within reach.
I still dream escapes out windows of tall buildings—chased by flames or assassins. So far, I’ve reached ground, pivoted, propelled into flight.
The dead come to say good morning at dawn
cloaked in regal plumage, ranging carmine to crimson;
sooted lores enrapture dark onyx eyes. Perched
atop the inverted bottle feeder, he calls
for his mate in a staccato string of sweet
whistles to draw her – pale brown, tinged
ruby at the edges – he boasts of mealworms,
sunflowers, and luscious blackberries eyed
on his flight at first light from ridgetop
to valley, and ranging between – a bounty
to feed hungry mouths. Their morning forage
not only will satisfy the restless hatchlings
back at the nest, but also settle my soul, calm
my wondering with their visit today – a harbinger
of news & good fortune. All is well in the world.
Its tomato tying time
all the time these blazing
days. The heat acts the same
on the plants as me when I see
my lover, me reaching for her
like a vine seeking a cage
to climb, and if the ‘mater
is an analogue for me, maybe
it’s too urgent, because
it’s exuberance requires
cutting back the excess
that produces no fruit.
The rain, too, has fed
this gravid thing with
illusions that more is better
when really, more is just more
to cut back, more to decide
what to do with. I think
the plant dreams of its mother
seed – suspended in the wet
jelly of the host – and wishes
to return to that state, free
and waiting for the time
to remake itself
in its own image.
–
The bird on the building roof
Is auditioning to star on Broadway
Belting out the notes like Merman
Unmindful of the Greek chorus
Of bulldozers and backhoes
Sirens screeching the high notes
The bird perseveres
Overpowering progress
Sending a message
Fluff yourself awake
Tweet faith in tree and sky
Sing your heart into the day
2022.
Still Washing Lipstick
Off The Inside Of My Masks.
Why Am I Trying?
Side-by-Side
This is so You.
Which is another way of saying I do that too.
And This is so Me.
Which is another way of saying I wish You were here.
In Process
I don’t yet know the word for what I am.
But I know the way it wiggles.
I can taste the terroir.
And I’m pretty sure it rhymes with “everything.”
we used to sit together
on the porch swing
and watch the sun
come over the hill
while we drank coffee
and gossiped about
the neighbors
sometimes, we read our books,
pausing from time to time to ask
“How is yours?” or “Close to the end?”
sometimes, after dinner, we would bring out
dessert and watch the stars come out
i remember the last time we
sat on the porch swing,
discussing what the doctor had said
now you are dead
now, i can’t walk past
that swing
i can’t do a lot of things
i used to do–
we used to do–
i remember one Sunday morning,
the skies were clear, the birds
were singing, and you–
sitting right next to me,
keeping me warm in the cool
of early Spring
you kissed me
didn’t say anything
just kissed me
and it was the most
real kiss i ever had–
my heart dancing,
the porch swing creaking
as you rocked us, gently,
back and forth from
one side of eternity
or other
I’d rather read than work.
I’d rather eat than cook,
but unfortunately
my life is not one in a book.
I’d rather run than walk.
I’d rather speak than hear you talk,
but sometimes we must take a step back to know
where we need to go.
I’d rather sleep than live.
I’d rather take than give,
but to live an abundant life
we must push ourselves within.
