Recognizing Joy
Joy bubbles below the surface
And it surprises me
It has been a while
Since that emotion has surfaced
I am grateful to experience
Joy again
Joy bubbles below the surface
And it surprises me
It has been a while
Since that emotion has surfaced
I am grateful to experience
Joy again
Your love is a carcinogen
And memories split like cells
Cloning with minor changes
You were the first to mutate
And never cease, your image
Fractaling and augmenting
Smothering every other thought
But the ones of you, a consuming
Burden lugged with each heartbeat
Too deep to carve out of my skull
Too fragile a place rooted in to irradiate
Instead I make my body war itself
Hoping to destroy you the last time
Work, for the night is coming,
Work through the morning hours;
Work while the dew is sparkling,
Work ’mid springing flowers;
Work when the day grows brighter,
Work in the glowing sun;
Work, for the night is coming,
When man’s work is done.
(Annie Louisa Walker)
There are whites and browns
azures and sulphurs.
swallowtails longtails
cloudywings duskywings
commas and question marks
alpine blues and tanana arctics
pearly-eyes buckeyes
tortoiseshells checkerspots
Californian sisters painted ladies
queens and monarchs, admirals and satyrs
fritillaries elfins hairstreaks
blue moons and mourning cloaks
a whole fleet of skippers–
grizzled, fiery and dingy
Next time, we’ll cover the moths . . .
Is that the susurration of leaves
as the rising wind pushes through
the red maple and gold-clad elms,
or has the rain begun to color
the worn cedar of the porch?
It’s safe to say that
You, my love,
May be the one who gets me famous.
Yet I hate to say that,
I often worry
If some nights you’d even be able to
To pick me
Out of a line-up.
I loved you so.
The years of difference
ridiculous in number,
I conjured a potion
to make me young.
But I could conjure the look only;
something skipped in the words,
the intonation off.
Gone were gray and yellow,
lines and knots and stoop.
The inside remained.
I could give no children.
I had little energy
or time,
just decay
with a pretty cover
which was yours
because I loved you so.
Once in a tattoo shop I
listened as three male
artists and a male
client discussed their murder
method of choice if they
were villains, for you see
tattoo artists are just comic book
nerds with an edge.
Two were straightforward, bloody
and loud, a couple more graceful
or exotic. No one asked me and I
hadn’t planned to speak until I
found myself blurting, “suffocation by
face-sitting.” The tattoo gun
halted, and all eyes turned
to me. Naturally, they
told me I won.
If I ever do
drown a man
between my legs, just
know it was no
accident, nor suicide.
