Posts for June 20, 2022 (page 5)

I tried on another skin—an Earl Scruggs/Lester Flatts 
thin veneer—a near-woman skirting 

this Great Big Life. I closed the bedroom door
with my new 5-string until I learned fretting

and the strum-pluck rhythms of “John Henry.” Off
to college with the round-headed case, but no place—

never a found place—to make mistakes. I dragged that
banjo from year to year, stashed it beneath dorm beds,

inside apartment closets. Her final note botched
in front of my boyfriend’s parents, audience-induced 

amnesia stilling the song. Decades later, the old girl
leans against the bedroom wall, broken-stringed,

drum intact. But, I bought a pack of Martin Vegas, nickel-
wound for longer tone, and found the book I learned on.     

Poems might be
a perfect place to complain———(let it all out—unedited)
But you might rather take a deep breath——-(air-condition the brain)
and begin fresh ————(like a new person focused on the future)
than saddle the back of a rattle snake———-(and ride stupidly)
making a scene——(blah, blah, blah— loudly raising hell all over the place)
over lost yesterdays—-(unearthed failed days, places, things…)
and transgressions —-(people tied to pangs of longing and regret)
that should best stay— (aren’t you thinking about those things right now)
forgotten ————————(well, good luck with that)

Says she hasn’t eaten in days

Welcome tomorrow!

Our earth’s tilt, earth’s distance–

come with morning birds’ welcome.

Water & air warm up soon.

alternating grief and thanks
forgetting then
remembering
constantly, hourly

in the cold sterile light,
before-pictures are taken to
guide the skilled hand in the
reshaping of me and later to
match the natural
size and pigment
in the aureola, should
I so choose

Others’ faceless
after-pictures are
offered up to
prepare me for
waking up.

Their scars will be my scars.
Baked potatoes
with an angry split
tbrough the centers.

Litany of details;
4-5 hour procedure,
narcotic prescriptions,
stay ahead of the pain,
antibiotics, 
Silkwood washing ritual
for days prior,
button up shirts,
slip on shoes,
body wipes.

In the Intimates
fitting room,
months later,
I will realize
the cups’ lining is
now irrelevant.
Nothing erect left
to smooth.

Nights spent
researching,
submitting 
claims.

All that family experience.
Illusions of control, the
first casualty.

All you have to do
is the next
brave thing, you said

Each day leading up
I set a timer,
sat in our bathroom,
catastrophized and
cried, a practice I thought
barbaric when you
suggested it to me.

I pierced the writhing
beast like a worry doll,
so I could function in
front of our eight year old.

I will always love you
for the dignity and
humor you gifted me
while you
emptied my drains. 

I walked the pool,
from end to end,
contemplating the sun on my shoulders,
and the slow drag of the water. 

My son was playing a few feet away,
laughing with friends,
and I was watching

Hands:
willow branches of intent,
of touch I wilt away from.

But yours, Papa:
lifted me onto your shoulders,
bandaged my bruises,
steadied my training wheels,
planted flowers I’d idly mentioned,
guided mine over Urdu letters and life.

Your hands, Papa:
weathered roots of protection,
of hugs I’ll jump into headfirst.

I’ll leave you with
a kiss for good measure,
cause darling love is lucid
when you don’t know any better.

I’ll leave you with
phantom touch memory,
and long after I’m gone
it’s like you’re here with me.

I’ll leave you with
all the love I had to give,
like guardian angel stories
and time-sand through a sieve.

I’ll leave you with
a funeral to plan.
I never wanted this for us
but young love doesn’t give a damn.

a crow eats roadkill
in the middle of my lane
and I have to swerve

You landed
And went to look for my footprints
Among the shells and shoreline,
Where I had to tiptoe past the signs to hide in plain sight. 
Surely  they were still there
Since I haven’t yet shaken the sand from my shoes.