Unfortunately, the poem you requested
could not be retrieved at this time.
Would you prefer to try a scribble? A scramble?
A jumble of words?
No? Only poetry? Okay then.
Nothing to see here.
You will be notified when your poem is ready to load.
We apologize for the inconvenience.
I don’t want your forgiveness, bloodchild,
when you have your milkteeth buried
in the blue-laced hollows of my wrist.
The hazed empty nightmare you give in
for a word from me, for your lonely desire
for repentance, as though you could be saved.
You’re pretending to be gentle, unstitching me,
clawing my loose veins from their red innerlife
with your viperous mouth, to get inside me again,
acting like you’re holy, girl, a wine-soaked angel,
no blood to bare with only a couple of bad deeds
weighted on those wide white shoulders.
Yet you are only minuscule, small enough to cage
yourself in the earthen tunnels of my heart,
leech curled domesticated in my wasteland arms.
After leaving of our love to rot wild in the creek,
you feast on its remnants, swirl around its death
like the sick fuck you are, bloated on memory.
I will gut you in seconds with my fingernails,
so thank me for this small grace: I’d kill you
quickly with a breath of what I really think,
and hope I didn’t just hurt you like you said,
I hope I made you hurt yourself in my honor;
tasting me on your lips, summer-raw, hellish, sweet.
Over the years, I’ve grown to rely on ordered rows, line leaders, tape markers dictating
my next step. I submitted to the mindless procession toward a future preordained,
a diploma whose letters I had been inscribing since I first learned
to march single file. Shoving me into the “real world”
is like releasing a rescued animal into the wilderness after she has forgotten
the feeling of sodden earth on her paws. I meander,
searching for the familiar, waiting for codes of conduct to build fences
for me, for parents to feed
me correct decisions.
The further I wander from graduation day, the further I journey
into a forested labyrinth
of winding trails choked with rampant possibility,
all open to me.
Where do I go from here?
The answer intoxicates the wildest
part of me, the reckless dreamer ordered
lines could never tame:
anywhere
You were seven.
Your long brown curls
Swinging at your waist
As we trailed along
Through the woodline
Past the ol’ farm dumping grounds
Beyond the crooked creek
And just near the clearing of daffodils
“There!” “And here, momma!” You shouted.
Your little voice rang out with joyous abundance.
I turned to find you
With your shirt bundled like an apron basket
Full up with your “biggest find ever!”
A treasure trove of tastey morels
The excitement that lit up your eyes
Your cheesy, snaggle-tooth grin
Those rain boots with the polka dots and bows
We brought home your haul
In your little red wagon
Buckets full–
“Kentucky Dryland Fish”
A springtime treat!
Anniversaries aren’t just for the joys;
Life’s sorrows need remembering too.
Grief demands mile markers –
“She would have been 13 today.”
“This was the day of his surgery.”
“They would have been married for four years.”
“This was when the accident happened.”
Times to pause and reflect
On what was lost,
On who is gone…
On what remains,
On who is here.
Inside the Dancing Garden
Come with me
inside the dancing garden.
Come taste. Come see.
Come join me in this wild.
I know what they say,
“Don’t trust a woman in a garden.
She may offer you an apple,
as round as a breast,
and as ripe as possibilities.
You will never recover
from your mouth on her satin skin,
or your hands tracing curves
previously unknown.
The first, soft bite into her tender skin,
flushed red with passion,
will be your ruination,
and her sweet juice
will linger in your mouth
long after you have had your fill.
Don’t trust a woman in a garden.
She may offer you fruit,
and you may take it.”
But I say, think of everything you will learn
when you taste the fruit of this tree of knowledge,
there’s so much to know
about fruit flesh, about Love,
about good. In the dancing garden
there is no evil.
I will feed you mangos
’til your cheeks blush it’s colors,
of sunset and oranges.
Come take my flesh,
slick and moist,
and hold it, hot
like summer in your hands.
Let me take you
back to nature, baby.
Come with me to this dance.
We will move in perfect time,
your body flush with mine,
in this dancing garden,
this Eden calling.
Come, we will dance,
and dance, and dance.
I’ve been collecting looms.
Big with levers and ratchets and cranks and
small full of nail heads to hold
the looping folds of string transforming
slow at
the start then
fast to a bit
of cloth.
I could turn this into anything.
I keep never understanding how wrapped warm
I have been and safe in the warp and
weft of the universe until the threads tear
loose and
leave me
torn.
I stare at a tree behind the
stage at Central Park
Watch sunlight shape it,
transform white light to yellow
orange and finally beautiful burning red
background to Shakespeare in the Park
natural stage lights as dark descends
around us, and a green heron flies overhead.
Orators in my head
Have no manners
Talking all at once
They rattle with words
The jittery winged
Roaches rustle in the muck
Do I free them from their torment
Keep them from a muddy grave
My end of day frequency makes them scramble
Resisting the taste of my voice, they take flight
Their torn broken wings flapping fast making
Slanted silhouettes as they slip out of sight
A muted buzz follows the wind through the trees
Sleep is now a whisper away
