it was Memorial Day
with a soaking overcast
the house smelled of mold
with everything as it was
for almost
thirty
years
the stale cigarette ghosts
in every single fiber of carpet
fanned out in yellow patches
on the ceiling
he sat in the same place
that she sat cancer eating him up
like it did her
watching him cringe
and I felt more for him than I ever did
for that old woman
but it still wasn’t enough
Fiery sun swimming higher with each passing cloud weather
Truck windows rolled all the way down weather
Going to work with Dad weather
Pull into the U-Totem store parking lot weather
What kind of stick ice cream you want weather
Definitely orange creamsicle weather
Lady bug dancing down the windshield weather
Here’s your stick ice cream weather
Dad, it’s not a creamsicle weather
I wanted an orange creamsicle weather
Driving on the interstate with Johnny Cash weather
But it’s not a creamsicle, I wanted a creamsicle weather
Dad reaching cross the cab to my hand weather
Chocolate stick ice cream thrown out the window weather
Best appreciate what you got in your hand weather
Hiding in my room crosslegged on the floor
On the side of my bed you can’t see from the door
(in case anyone walked choosing not to knock first)
When you’re told by the older ones that they will
Tell you what to think and feel
Even tho you’re now fifteen but you’ve heard that
As long as you can remember
And for so long you’ve managed to keep the truths
Inside and unheard by anyone who might be near enough to hear
And at the end of each day you release the words with anything
Sharp enough to open the skin but in places only I can see
(because the questions couldn’t possibly be answered)
And let loose in red all the real feelings
And then she moved in because my family took in stray people like
Most people take in stray animals
Her laugh was like a million tiny bells ringing and her singing was ethereal
When she smiled at you her eyes said I know
And no matter the words that spilled from her
There was the whisper of I know that only I could hear
Long walks and late nights and private jokes
I was an archaeologist exploring her vinyl collection
Her favorite songs became my favorite songs
And even today my playlists will tell you
More about me than my own words ever could
(My only musical talent is picking good music)
Today she lives 1041.17 miles away and in my head
But a phone call will find me holding her close
And if ever I thought it was time to let go
Of this world
Her voice brings me back
And gives me a reason
My girlfriend erupts on the bed
without warning,
spewing joy throughout the room,
the heat of her laughter
enveloping everything.
I am lucky.
On a good day,
I get to experience this
at least once or twice,
the surprised reaction of her body
to some unexpected delight,
uncontrolled
and rippling in waves.
The cause of this event
is rarely as entertaining to me
as the event itself,
watching her spasm
with euphoria
as she makes music.
Few people get to hear the full symphony
of her laugh
on a regular basis.
But I get to bathe in it often.
They say to partner with someone who makes you laugh.
What they forget is you must also find someone
with laughter worth loving.
everyone avoids having hands. the artists
prefer them left just out of sight. we talk quiet
-ly amongst ourselves, so the paintings don’t hear
us as we travel through an endless series of hall
-ways. every woman is a goddess, or a woman
being chased by some dumb god. the gods
are everywhere, the gods are gods to us.
sometimes the trees look like the trees
we know. and sometimes we only know
them as trees because they say they are so
on the placard placed to the left or right
designed to explain to us what everything
in the world really means. we never even
question who they are. after all, they are
the experts, aren’t they? we take small breaks
to catch our breath, even though we only walk
slow. the world here seems so still, so crowded
and all the salomes are judiths, so there’s no dance.
Cedar, Holly, Redbud
loom over the beds,
so no surprise when
the shovel thumps.
Roots, thick like arms
I fear to sever. So I paw
the soil with a trowel.
Fling dirt back in my face.
Plunge gloved fingers
tease apart the roots–
Hosta, Astilbe, Coral Bell.
Crumble clods in each hole.
A robin oversees my work.
Flitting down from my fence
he sucks worms and grubs
from the upturned earth.
Three on one
Not defensive basketball
More like a Salem witch trial;
Parents –preacher man
In church basement
Belting boy’s bare butt
Until the skin split–
Until the skin split–
Untile the skin split–
The boy did not like Sunday School.
We make schedules
changes for everybody
trying to streamline people
We brought everyone back
got complaints
everybody still bouncing around
we are not being fair,
we have to look at it.
“Ants are omnivores and will eat just about anything.” a-z-animals.com
We picnic together often these days,
a basket for ourselves, we unwillingly have to share.
The problem is the ants.
One intruder stealing from us is somewhat noticed, yet
I can’t pretend these predators aren’t on the move.
They crawled in taking small bites at first, but now
there are gaping holes in you.
These scavengers, in a collective effort,
have infiltrated and are carrying off our treasures.
Our friends have noticed the onslaught.
I tried to hide them under the blanket for awhile,
eventually everyone saw the ants covering you,
except you.
These days I savor our picnics,
but you can’t remember to brush away the ants.
