The dying was propped up in a chair.
We fed it soothing words and soft food
And included it in the conversation.
That was our mistake.
Death settled in deep.
Inexorable, inevitable–
Glacial,
And huge, so huge.
It filled more than the chair.
It filled everything.
It filled us–
And took its time.
I threaten to give God
a good talking-to.
God says I’d like that.
We eyeball each other.
The cat’s got my tongue.
God says,
Hey, man, for real,
who’s that cat?
Black-throated sparrows and dawn,
he flicks his fingers like a lighter, like he wants to start something
with no sound, like a word,
like the vowels cut from my name
& whisper them into the right ears
of my ballpoint: Love
always burbling in the background.
A far voice
full of memory: why it left home.
The honest wind will knock
like something broken letting loose. What it
want? To break new ground.
Kingdom come & morning light appear
in our slender boughs / even in our undergrowth.
A Cento from poems in Section one of What Things Cost: An Anthology of the People (The University Press of Kentucky, 2023) with lines from poems by (in this order): Erica Meitner, Javier Zamora, Seth Pennington, Ocean Vuong, Ruth Awad, José Olivarez, Yusef Komunyakaa, Faisal Mohyuddin, Kevin Goodan, Yaccaira Salvatierra, Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle, Curtis Bauer, Chris Green, L. Lamar Wilson and upfromsumdirt
When it first happens,
it’s so effortless and easy
that I almost don’t notice.
Talking with people
that mere months ago
were not even strangers,
but simply unknown to me
altogether.
Speaking about a place
that I now know better
than the back of my hand
I say to my people
“Let’s go home,”
And I don’t know when I started calling it that,
but I know that label has fit it
for a while.
Minds wander in fictitious realities
seeking solace from real causalities
in a fictionalized place
underwater palaces, or stations in space
on the precipice of changing our fates.
Engaging battles where heroes are born
or turned to villainy by greed or lover’s scorn.
Imaginary friends, foes made by creation
at the mercy of our motivations
and the Creator’s twisted machinations.
Upon journey’s end, where will we be?
Mixtures of emotions, not previously foreseen:
joyous, tearful, writhing in pain
for enemies vanquished, friends slain,
wondering: what is it we have gained?
The singular experience of a solo player.
Many understand, but it’s no one-size-fits-all container.
Questing, connecting, interacting; similar for some.
What the heart endures, that’s where the difference comes from.
Changing our fates, influencing a piece of who we are to become.
There is a bird
Caught in the lip
Of the hood
And the headlight,
Dangling.
It’s feathers are
Ruffled and crooked.
It’s neck long
And strained.
You can see clear
Down to the muscle.
We stand, staring,
On either side.
You don’t say
You’re sorry
For yelling and
I don’t say
I wish you weren’t
So hard on me.
I shrug my shoulders
And you reach out
Your hand and
Rip body from head,
A clean pull.
You look at what
You’ve done and
Drop it.
We both turn to
Go.
Pens
pencils
exacto knife
markers
disappear
from a tin on my desk.
Some surface on the kitchen counter,
on the living room carpet, or under the table
where I indulge my jigsaw hobby. Others,
often those chosen when composing poetry,
are absent until I tackle dust bunnies
under the bed or spy one lurking
among the fronds of my favorite fig.
Artful perpetrator
announces
her forays
with triumphant
yowls
in the middle of the night.
The yin and yang of the sky before a storm
Yellow like the low belly of a fire
just struck with a match
lies behind me
Kinetic with electricity
the winds rush through trees
Felt deep in my joints
A humid smell, sweet wetness
Bluish grey like hell’s ashes rising to the heavens before me
Thunderous bellows like a ghoul in the night
Rain clouds bursting
No longer contained
A past not so far behind me
Possibly how my future lies before me
