I started to write
an ode to boxed wine,
but words escaped me.
So I tried to write
a limerick about boxed wine:
there once was a boxed wine from France–
and the only rhyme
I could think of was “underpants”–
switched to haiku–not sure
if the boxed in boxed wine
was one syllable or two.
At the thought of a sonnet,
opened the damn boxed wine
and had a few.
us, as we smiled at each other & contemplated
jumping back in. The air that morning was sweet;
I tried to remember its sweetness, but my
mother kept telling me to be careful & drink
plenty of water. She had filled up a huge bottle.
Be careful, her sweet voice lilted. We jumped
from the tall tree, from the large branch
that extended over the creek—was this
the closest we could get to dying?
I’m sure that this was not what my mother
envisioned when she said be careful, as the
shorter, thinner limbs wipped & cut into our
skin—leaving red marks & scars & bruises.
Mud spots splattered up & down our legs.
The heat was sweltering. Over & over we jumped
from that branch. Over & over my mother’s voice
played in my ear. Be careful. Over & over.
Be careful. Over & over. We were just
a group of boys—all we knew how to do
was play games. Jumping was never a risk.
Be careful. Over & over. We forgot towels,
so we just had to lay in the grass, letting
some of the blades stick to our legs & feet
as the sun dried us & we resisted the temptation
to jump back in. Be careful. Over & over.
Her voice was there the first time we smoked
pot. Be careful. Over & over. Drank beer. Over &
over. Shots. Be careful. Over & over. Made love
to a girl in the backseat of my dad’s
pick-up. Over & over. Be careful. Over & over.
We were just a group of boys, jumping into
the creek on the summer solstice.
Out of all the places in the world
You came from the town I’m haunted by
The one my grandmother’s shadow
Looms over, a smile at the County Clerk
In her green dress in that photograph
And her first husband, the dead drunk
And her new husband, that’s also dying
Brain Mets, they say it’s getting better
But it’s not something you recover from
True love the second time around
And a life lived for others grace
He was a principal and now he replays
Memories of playing basketball with his son
I’m his honorary granddaughter, memory-less
But filled with a shared love and heartache
I cannot walk in that town without
Seeing strangers who know me better than
I do. My grandma and grandpa. You came
Humming my middle name, you figured
Me out before I was even born just by
Watching my family form and fall apart
Determined to put the pieces back together
On the far side of middle-aged,
she wears white pants
and a flowing purple top,
a straw hat with bright pink flowers.
On the far side of well-padded,
she dances on the sidewalk,
getting her groove on
at the blues festival.
It’s not even dark yet and it makes me wonder
what the far side of sundown might bring.
i suppose most men believe they are special
in everyday life, walking about and pointing up at things
as if they had never seen it all before as if they had never seen it all
a thousand times over and over,
picking at the fruit on their plate or watching birds fly by
wishing they too were weightless in the sky.
but what of a woman? am i not weightless
when i swallow air or shave off all my hair?
i may not captain a ship, but i swim in the sea
with scales on my legs and fangs in my mouth.
or must i only carry my grandfather’s sword and abandon my grandmother’s jewels
to feel that special feeling that most men feel in everyday life?
what more could one woman do? expect,
to fight for the ashes of her mother,
and her mother before her, and
her mother before her, to prove in the face of most men
that to wish is to dream, and i have no dream
but only to feel such greatness
in the front of harsh winter and scorching summers.
Everyone’s story is written with different ink
We live for different reasons
Learn life lessons at different ages
Fall in love several times
And some just once
Some strive for a career,
A spouse, and some kids
And some of us the exact opposite
Some ache to see every inch of the world
While some wish to only see their small town
Some chase sunsets
While others, sunrises
I strive for an extraordinary life
A weird one, that doesn’t fit the stereotypes
But most importantly
One where I’m truly happy,
And where I am who I was always meant to be,
Writing my own story with my own ink
If hope is a house,
stone walls, thatched roof, gravel path,
roses rambling,
who locked the door and closed the
shutters? Can I get back in?
after Barbara Kingsolver
Tell me about your thirst.
— Mary Carroll-Hackett
This is not the time to raise a glass,
drink deeply from some crystal stream,
find words to toast a different future.
I’d rather speak of gnawing hunger,
the way it undermines my sleep, my hope,
how it never leaves dreams’ table satisfied,
no matter how much or often it gets fed
by masochistic urges to reassemble
things not meant to be that lie undone.
Thirst tears at my tongue and throat,
but never tries to breach the pericardium,
the place that holds my memories.
Bleach-hearted,
