Balls of cold butter
I roll in sugar grains and
Drop in hot oatmeal.
Flavorful, filling
Basic, old-school, homely oats
And sweet butter balls.
They melt delicious
Streaks of taste on the surface
Of breakfast comfort.
Green iguana
across my neck
Mermaid tail
up my back
–turquoise and pearls–
Peacocks
on my thighs,
their feathers–
teal, iridescent
from my knees
down
to my toes
Always at the edge
a gazillion creative ideas hover at bedtime
like friendly little Caspers
A promise is made in the dark
to remember each in the morning
First thought after coffee in the morrow
Wherefore art all the brilliant sparks of genius
Clamoring for their light of day is futile
The clever rascals have fizzled yet
they are still there somewhere in the shadows
haunting and taunting
always at the edge
Phoebe’s rasp rinses away sleep’s
last wrinkles so she and I can sway
through summer in pristine harmony.
Tail-twitches balance her teeters
like green tea and stretches
gird my morning.
She dresses drab and I too
don gray— my home-couture.
But we homebodies flex
inestimable superpowers.
She hovers, wingbeats humming
a half step above grass tips,
chooses juicy insect bits
speared for pleading nestlings.
I hover too, savor the fleeting
matters of my day: stacking
Duplos, kissing scraped knees,
teaching grandsons to say please.
Kentucky blew her dead breath,
coal stars slung in a tornado,
whisked through the barrel of ribs
that brace a miner’s chest.
Drift mouths in the mountains
stand screaming, abandoned as if
ghosts were lodged in their lungs—
long whispered secrets.
A continuous miner—
a rusted machine—falls away,
giving the weight of its bones
to the ground, to the faithful
pull of time.
Hands traced with the sludge
of sweat and dust in the labyrinth
caverns of their palms reach
for a trusted helmet, one
guiding light into hell.
Yes,
I’d like a cup of social change
with the cacophony of voices
each being heard
and not just the ones
of Bureaucratic turds
served with a plate
of Justice for All
no matter the color of the skin
Or sexual preferences,
gender identity
Or financial solemnity
and for dessert
appreciation toward each soul
acceptance of the new
and not sticking to stigmatisms
of centuries-old idealisms.
No please, no thank you
nothing for your tip
except, this is how it should be?
so why isn’t it?
“It’s a tall order
not one man can fill
I’ll ponder on it, though,
as I ring up your Bill.”
Think too long
and Society will turn raw
rotten, spoiled
in the midst of political toil.
Add to the order
a side of empathic understanding
for you to see, where everyone’s standing.
My gray cap drips.
Sunscreen congeals
in my neck creases.
I hide in the shadow
of a looming poplar.
Leaves’ susseration
shushes my pride.
Ten years ago, another
sweaty run in these trees.
The last day you didn’t
think about cancer.
The sunshine sickly.
Even this, you stain.
Morning after an Argument
On the rusted edges of
a dying night, language is
a fire, a syllable the spark,
its music unnoticed at first
like snow falling in the dark.
At graduation, the valedictorian:
“commencement” means beginning.
Those words hang in the air
like tasseled caps captured in photos,
and now I’m saying good morning.
After a big loss, Coach stands:
this isn’t the end; this is the beginning.
A slow clap follows, and now
I’m saying got ya coffee but what
I mean is sunrise is to darkness
as good lyrics and a snaking saxophone solo
are to long, winking lashes of silence,
and the waking light has opened
for the wet, new morning
moaning its desire to be born.
Morning after an Argument
On the rusted edges of
a dying night, language is
a fire, a syllable the spark,
its music unnoticed at first
like snow falling in the dark.
I’m saying good morning, and
got ya coffee but what I mean
is sunrise is to darkness as good
lyrics and a snaking saxophone solo
on the radio alarm are to tense silence.
I couldn’t help but think of you yesterday
as I listened to a TED-talk given by an astrophysicist.
I know, I know–the proofs and the figures, the applause.
I too grew tired
because what common person can comprehend
a light year?
I too felt compelled to go out
and sit under the stars and the full moon.
No harm in taking a brainbreak,
lying in the cool grass,
breathing starshine and moonlight.
But, here’s the thing:
the lecturer echoed your words.
We are electric.
We are all connected.
We are each sacred.
We are star dust.
The iron that makes my blood red,
that makes your blood red,
and that has been in the blood of every human being ever
was born when our galaxy came into existence.
When our bodies die,
the universe repurposes the iron
along with every single element.
We are limitless!
Whatsmore, astrophysicists’ instruments can capture
a single particle of light
in many places at the same time
making it possible that different versions of space and time exist all at once–
all past/present/future versions of myself, yourself,
every single person we have ever loved,
infinite!
How indeed do we not drop to our knees
each morning
in awe
at the perfect, profound miracle
that is a single leaf of grass?
Anyway, I write this letter to encourage you
to give the astronomer another chance.
After all these years,
it appears science is on your side.
*Disclaimer: I am not a scientist nor a Whitman scholar, so apologies if I got any concepts wrong.
I was born in a tiny town
by the ocean.
I’ve always felt saltwater
runs through my veins,
comforting and refreshing
but not palatable.
My body is an ocean
beautiful and terrifying.
The ocean is dying.
My body is aging.
My tiny ocean town
seemed a dreamy place to live.
We didn’t live there.
We moved to a landlocked state
when I was an infant.
Only visiting the ocean
in the summertime
like tourists.
The ocean has never been my home.
My body has not been my home.
Though I visit both from time to time.
