I do not steal the night,
rip out each stapling star,
unhook the punctured moon,
unspool the stitching of celestial bodies,
fold the material into a blackhole.
I do not set up the day,
paint the blue hues of sky,
fit the fussy, flashing sun,
mix the iced water called clouds,
unveil the art birthing beauty.
I cannot steal nor set up
what I am.
describe this moon
without using adjectives
for a perfect poem:
harvester, hunter
corn planter signal
insomnia’s cause
madman’s origins
werewolf’s agony
apollo’s mission
festival marker
calendar’s rhythms
lady liberty dollar
buttermilk from above
rusk my grandma ate
the cheddar dad sliced
just one strawberry in June
You’re on my mind again
and as I watch the thunderhead close in
I hear your heavy heart utter
“I’m sorry, it’s just..the spark is gone…I don’t feel…”
your breath fell like cold showers on my forest fires
that proudly burned for the whole world to see
but seasons change with or without us
only to be relived
and I’ve missed you
like the earth misses the rain
knowing you won’t stay for long
I close my eyes and I can still see
your jet black hair and evergreen eyes
returning my longing gaze
like two magnets pulled apart
So I’ll stand beneath the anvil
of this desert thunderhead closing in
and beg it to strike me down
with one good bolt
reduce me to ashes
and let me be born somewhere else
Holding a poem
in my feelings like the woman you are today, a day hotter than it was Sunday, or yesterday at this exact time. Holding images of you inside where my secrets go to hide from the page, words I do not say, nor bring outward as rhyme. I hold them like the woman you could be across a line and down, with similes like wine, sweet dessert ones, savoring the taste of it the way I can.
If what my mom always said is true,
and any work is worthy if done with a grateful heart,
why am I just so stuck on hearing their words on replay
in my brain, a tape on an endless loop,
the tone dripping in condescension
about all the “little jobs” our high school friend had worked.
Little jobs, landscaping and electrical assistant,
getting his knees covered in grass stains edging a yard to perfection
and climbing ladders to replace bulbs til his ankles creaked.
Just wonder if that same poisonous sugary voice-tape gets stuck
in anyone else’s head as someone tells them,
when I’m not around,
that this girl Jordan is now a part-time barista
and “oh, how cute is that?”
After the storm,
the grass is greener than green,
greener than a pixie’s clover tunic
as she flies beyond the place
where kisses float
on flash flood runoff.
Can you remember us
in the space between
this world and the storm?
The Story of Dust
Dust to Dust, to Dust Again
Where Do I Begin
And no End, no End
No End to Dust in the Wind
More Dust in the Wind
And That
Is the Story of Dust
My Friend
