Sometimes, you’ve gotta admire the destruction,
It started with one
a boy in all red
from his hair
to the race car locked in his grip
Then there were two
a boy who chose blue
from his shoes
to his crayons and his soapy bathtub trinkets
A cookie monster sweatshirt
he insisted on wearing
’til his belly hung out
as he grew too tall for it
A kid in love with bubbles
and blue sprinkle-covered butter treats
in that moment
when color choice is as complicated as life gets
Maybe Yeats was right about that rough beast.
I joke over dinner that I get anxiety
from the sound of a text or call–
but it’s also a half-truth, a relic
of freelance work, the odd hours,
or the shoe about to drop–you never know
what kind of ill will comes after supper
when folks get mean and wanting something
from you, whatever that thing may be,
I tell them. I can’t tell if it’s a job, some fun,
or a happy accident–this messenger chance
as improbable as their mouth on air
tracing esses, as if suddenly by naming me
I would be wholy formed again.
The women I’ve told I love you,
counted on the fingers of one hand.
The ones who responded in kind, less.
A stranger to this geography,
I only see part of the picture
to draw ekphrases, to order words.
Forgive me: I want to know
what lies outside the frame,
below the golden words suspended,
behind the cloth and flesh, in your heart.
Around here,
There may be roosters,
But it is I who rule the roost.
All others must pay homage to
My perfect plumage
While I strut through the farm
Fanned and fancy in full fashion.
The cock may crow,
But it is I who will awaken
My subjects by blessing them with
My pristine presence
While I alight upon cage and rooftop alike
Greeting goat, guinneas, and girl.
He can climb his ladder inside,
But outside the barn,
I reign supreme, royalty
My proven position
While I am king –
High-browed, high-mannered, yet
Hugely humble.
Mimeograph, oh mimeograph
what sweet memories you bring
The rapture of being chosen to turn
the crank, watch the drum spin,
turning backward print into purple miracle
poems, spelling sheets, times tables
The delight of warm sheets smelling of
grownups and secrets and wisdom
of being trusted to carry the paper
stack carefully from office to classroom
Mimeograph, oh mimeograph
how I loved you
It takes a separate leap
of faith to imagine in each
far off wave, a shiny silver
streak of blue fish flesh:
an arch of giant mammal
leap from the infinity
of endless sea,
exciting wonder,
possibility,
perhaps the misty spray
of a distant blowhole
or hint of dorsal fin
as the wave breaks,
then folds in.
Every false hope
leaves me to blink,
hand over eyebrows,
squint of lids,
as if the trick might
work as a crude lens.
It was only light
and shadow.
Wrong again.
I’d have kept you alive
for 20 more years. You’d stop
wearing a beat-up Cincinnati
Reds cap to hide the thinning
tendrils of your blonde-gray
hair. I convince you that bald
is sexy. In your soaring
tenor you’d belt out two
original love songs at my front
yard wedding–only six of us &
Chrysiantha–under the Sugar
Maple. No more delivering
Dominoes at 2 am, double
cheese & pepperoni. Your album
climbs to #1 on the Americana
charts & you leave Nashville once
& for all with your faded blue
pick-up, red & white
Fender & Tina, your spectacular middle
age lover. You take Brenda, the sweet
dappled calico, along too; the light
of Carolina still strong in your voice.
