Aubade for Pentecost
I rise in night’s last dark
leave the sleeping house
step into the morning of the world
Birds sing in tongues
crickets click confusion
bullfrogs ask deep questions
New wind wrinkles pond water
breath of trees strokes my skin
I accept the kiss of peace
Hills turn pink with joy
flowers lift their heads– I turn
with them to face the rising fire
I used to fuck in a cardigan
to avoid being repulsed by my arms.
If you ever want to feel exposed,
flay yourself in front of a lover
completely nude
with the exception of an insecurity cardigan.
I had a booger wall
for much longer than appropriate.
(As if that’s ever proper etiquette.)
In bed I’d wipe all my crusties and slimies
behind the headboard on the wall.
I still gnaw at my dirty nails obsessively
like a dog who found a thorn in their paw.
I spit them like sunflower seeds
into heaps behind the couch,
or on the floorboard of my car,
the spaces of infinite possibilities.
I floss my teeth with a string
from the seam of my baby blanket
or a strand of someone’s stray hair.
We are all disgusting, cringey beings.
Our flesh, shielded from the world entirely
by trillions of crawling bacteria.
Somehow still, we blush.
We hide our secrets
in our lint filled belly buttons
the way I tuck a tampon up my sleeve.
In the stall, I unwrap it delicately.
So cautious not to be discovered.
How embarrassing to bleed.
How revolting to be human.
they approached like fire
She floats just slightly off the ground,
ignores emails but thinks
she’s answered them, lives
in a neverland breathing a potion
rarer than oxygen, more refined,
an elixir of the gods. Even her dreams
are epic–white lions by her side,
her guardians, her coat of arms.
A smile that radiates, lights
an aura around her. Her shape
conjures an ancient fertility
goddess someone found in a tomb,
blew the dust from.
Mere mortals nightly pray
for such dreams,
such magic.
There’s nothing quite like
Rocks were rocks. Objects of obstruction.
To be moved, broken, ridded.
Birds were birds, except quail
which we ate, and mourning dove
which Hank Williams taught us.
Weeds were weeds (we didn’t know
any other kind), except poke greens
and dock which we ate in spring. Otherwise,
objects of obstruction. To be plucked, hoed.
Trees were trees, except maples protecting
the house, oaks with acorns, fruit trees
after which we salivated, & cedar trees
we called Christmas trees. Objects of shade
in the yard, fencerows. Downed,
to be burned ahead of seeding
tobacco beds, killing weed seed.
Life, a list of vocabulary to learn.
You trying to stop
I can’t shake this feeling
I’ve been here before,
walked these paths
beneath these trees,
sat on this very lawn.
I tingle, pausing every few feet
like I’m getting reacquainted
with an old friend.
Centuries calling and
decades of sensory input
filter through my skin,
the longing of birds and tree frogs,
wind brushing my face,
scent of sweet hay on the air.
I stand surrounded by buildings
I’ve never actually seen, but
memories press into me,
a feeling of familiarity,
a connection,
a moment I’m sure
I know this place.
