Unpack
Let’s stuff our memories into photo albums
and immortalize our sun-squinting smiles.
We’ll let our suitcases hibernate
until they’re ready to wake.
I forgot that I didn’t submit my poem last night.
I forgot the poems for June 2nd and June 3rd, too.
I forgot that I didn’t attach the attachment to my just sent email.
I forgot what I went into the refrigerator for as soon as I opened the door.
I forgot our anniversary last year.
I was about to write another stanza to this poem.
I forgot what I wanted to write.
rest
the hardest currency to negotiate
I often feel undeserving
odd, right?
to not feel worthy of a basic need
others demand their share
fly away to sunlight yet me
I feel this presupposed obligation
a reason to continue despite
I tell myself movement is the key
always, ever onward or else
I will collapse, sink, unhinge
except
it’s truly the opposite
and I’m currently collapsing, sinking, becoming
unhinged
all the while screaming into my own ear
take time before you regret not taking time
a circle, a cycle, a whirlwind
why is this what is
simply rest
gravel gray cocoa white sandy beach
doeskin beige limestone toffee mule ear greige
warm butter banana pudding cornsilk sheen
red river mud late harvest peach sienna rouge
profound rust blood orange pulp deep salmon
worn saddle brogan brown carrot cake
the challenge of naming mesa color layers
equals the task of mixing mesa color layers
A frantic ant line of blackberry seeds separates
me from summer. I’ve been stargazing
At fireflies again, convincing myself they’re just
the dead-bodied containers of some other ghost-given suns.
I’m stuck in a spring-back loop, snacking on trash
even the raccoons have pawed past in rueful
Distain. But the weeds are fevered so I know the solstice beckons,
hip-high and barreling toward the Fourth of one more July.
The air smells sweet, like satisfaction &
the hydration of watermelon. Like warm earth
Well before the rot out of fall. And, somehow, the sun shines on –
from yet another god-driven angle. A followspot
Pointing me out in a lineup of disbelievers.
Sweat beads, pulsating. A trickle.
Come hither, it whispers, thick-set and steady. You don’t have
to do anything. Summer’s already ready for you.
The library is not your bedroom
The library is not your bedroom!
It is also not your bathroom
It is a part-time kitchen and lover
full-time living room and friend
but it is not your bedroom
and it is not your bathroom
so help me god if you don’t put your shoes back on
and your nail clippers away
What, oh what, shall I make? What lilting tune shall I create To be the music of my life? A song of Mother? Teacher? Wife?
How could I merge the many years Composed of laughter, doubt, and tears Into a single piece or time? I cannot form the proper rhyme.
Though I confide, if I might, That every day and every night I lie awake, I lie abed Putting notes to words I’ve said.
