a sea of Saudis in thobes exchange three-kiss greetings
a player dries the ball on a camera operator’s pinny
nine Lions of Teranga run themselves ragged
rivals outfox each other and then exchange jerseys
both coaches wink at the camera
Inside that split nut is enough life
she told me today that i looked so happy
i smiled back at her
activating an invisible shield
attempting to block her ability to look right through me
i can’t help thinking
maybe today is the day
i’ll be able to let go
of the idea that everyone would be better off without me
then come the voices
a cacophony of deafening bells and alarms
full of reminders that i am nothing more
than a burden
dead weight – and a lot of it
an imposter
in a body that constantly betrays me
this body
an expert in mind games
never allowing the outside and inside to match
this body is hanging on for dear life
clinging to side of a ledge
willing someone to pull it back up
i see a hand reach out
her hand
it grabs mine
fingers intertwining
she pulls with all her might
and i am flying
then falling
right before her feet
i notice the crimson blood
coating the entirety of each hand
not mine
only then do i see
the blood is running down her arms
she’s injured
but i can’t figure out where it’s coming from
i found the wound
a tiny hole
in her heart
she says i put it there
the moment i failed to see myself
the way she sees me
You pick one
and use it
however you please
then leave it
facedown
and forgotten.
The Queen of Hearts.
A measly two.
Playing card
or person –
it’s all the same to you.
Step by step she taught me how to make hot
water cornbread. The Cajun way
like in Thibodaux. No sugar, no flavoring
unless you feel like a hint of garlic then shake in three
dashes of McCormick. Stir the cornmeal — Mama
liked Weisenberger Mill white. When the water
finally boils on the stovetop it must bubble
& roil like a crawdad cauldron on a smoking
campfire. Pour the scorching liquid in the grainy
mix & stir at the pace of a caterpillar or you’ll ruin
the concoction & turn it into mush. It has to be pliable
like Play-Doh. Some folks like their fried pieces
round like a biscuit but she liked to pat
her versions into an oval shape like an elongated flattened
egg. The popping grease sounded like rain — hot
rain. Mama & I didn’t always get along. She was gruff
& known for her fiery outbursts. I sanctified her grit.
She never needed leavening. She disciplined the flame.
What makes XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
creatures XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXX creatures XX
XXXXXXXXX the thousands XXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXX obsessions, XXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXX become XXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX life
XXXXXXXXXX
I pulled into the Save-A-Lot
and stopped over at the far end
of the sprawling blacktop.
Way away from the store
under the scruffy shade
of a line of locust trees and skinny maple
strangled out by sturdy grapevine.
There’s a hell of a view
from the grocery store parking lot.
It’s squatting way up on a hill,
hovering above town
and next to the Family Dollar.
The parking lot is peaceful
this early on a weekday.
Just me and a couple of Mamaws
out looking for deals on pork chops
and a dozen eggs.
I sit in the solitude and breathe
and forget about the coupons
I left laying on the kitchen counter
as I watch a three legged dog
and an old man with a gallon of milk
headed home and out of sight,
slow and steady in the sunshine,
setting their own pace.
where the light is
August.
Counterpoints
of peach and sugar,
and the sun sitting in the afternoon,
like a bone in a piece of fruit.
At summer’s end, the sweet strong cob
guards intact her bright and honeyed laugh.
August.
The children eat
burnt bread and rich moonlight.
Author: Federico García Lorca
Translator: Manny Grimaldi
in my dreams, you are:
gone, dead, and far far away.
in your dreams, i am:
here, there, your baby.
instead, i am just: dead, gone,
and far far away.
