Migrant Mother, Dorothea Lange
Her face is a fragment
of granite,
harshly lined, stark—
She has traveled
from Kansas
to escape dust and famine—
still—she is hungry,
her lean-to
shelter
filthy as the last one.
to the small boy in all the photos
(some show him smiling tho’ not all do):
you can learn to sort the fears like the plastic blocks
you used to build the model of Washington, D.C.
on the dining room table.
Not all last for long,
we take our worlds apart and there is no loss,
we build again.
Not all fears are the same:
yes, some are like the deep end of the motel pool,
a place you can drown and die.
Others move you
to kick and rise. Sort the worries one by one,
pick up each one and remember not all are the same:
yes, you’ve passed through the checkpoints,
surrendering the passport to mute officials,
waiting in the limbo between borders,
and then walked free of language and maps
on battered buses to Jerusalem.
Someone will help you sort the broken pieces,
some that seemed like sins to you,
secrets through the screen to the priest in the dark.
New dwellings will rise, white or clear blocks mixing,
then topped with the red lintels, fixing
new places to live where deserts
bleach the bricks
and winds
reshape.
To the tripart Monets hung in the Columbus Art Museum:
3 is powerful and you know that
Muted notes so orchestrated into power and vividness they are fragrant
You are art and your careful gathering exponentiates art
So that the air in the room is thick and balmy
When sensuality was vulgar, Keats was born
Nature will balance
When I stand in that room I know my counterpart
To create is to die and to die is too late
tell him it wasn’t okay
to stick his fingers up my pussy without invitation
say yes, it was that bad
even without the bruises on my arms as proof
explain to him that despite my freeze panic response
anything except a yes is a no
don’t invite him around anymore
don’t let it go when he’s unapologetic
don’t make me ask you to stand up for me
and for the love of god
call it what it is –
assault.
you can view it as a way to make life less curt;
It’s only courteous you give yourself back to the earth,
you won’t know what you’re worth until you die and experience rebirth,
and anything beautiful is deserving of the hurt
I sit in a chair in a hallway where the air smells sterile.
The only sounds I can hear are the whirling and beeping of machines, the occasional murmuring of nurses as they pass by.
And what sounds like the anthem of an 80’s cartoon sing out from one of the patient rooms.
I sit by the phone ready to answer it.
But it makes no sound.
There’s nothing to do.
I study my finger nails.
I’ve let them get far too long.
What would my mom say if she saw them?
If she saw how long I’ve let them grow?
That’s probably why I haven’t told her or let her focus too long on my hands.
Because I know how disappointed she’d be if she knew.
Saw how long and twisted I’ve let them get.
Seen all of the dirt under them.
That I couldn’t keep them under control.
Couldn’t keep anything under control.
Out of all my untamed fingernails.
The one I’m most focused on is the middle finger nail on my left hand.
It’s grown longer than the others and especially sharp at the end.
So sharp it gets caught on my pants and clothing sometimes.
I hate when that happens.
I hate how uncontrolled and long they are.
I hate looking at them.
Hate feeling them against my scalp or skin.
I make a claw on the desk with my left hand.
Pressing the tips of my nails down against the table.
I run them back and forth against the cool metal of the table, in what may be a futile attempt to file them down.
I run my nails back and forth over the table.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
And I don’t stop.
Just keep going and going.
Till the loudest thing in this hallway is the sound of my nails scratching against the surface of the metal table.
Maybe if I do it long enough the time will fly by.
Maybe if I do it long enough I’ll get to leave.
At least maybe it’ll be quiet for a minute.
But no matter how loud I do it or how long, it doesn’t keep back the sounds of machines whirling, or people talking, or the cheesy 80’s music for very long.
And it certainly doesn’t make the phone ring.
No point keeping specialized contacts
an active volcano
an open mouth
flowing years
in minutes
like flocks of birds
that circle an island
watching the sea
dappled field, light-horse
step forward
with me
with us above the mist
transversed by the sun
colors arise
an arc dancing
fluid light
and rain
speaking quiet
non words i release your
transient body
the green roots prostrate
before ashes
In the twilight I wait for fireflies.
Scanning the edge of my yard
I watch for the gentle flicker of their lanterns
Sharing secrets embedded within luminous morse code
I wait for them to light a path for you.
I look out toward the fading garden
At the peonies that have closed up for the night.
I think I can see you sitting among them
prying open their delicate heads
checking for ants trapped inside
Just like you did when we were small
during humid days elongated by the Spring equinox.
As burnt sienna fades into midnight blue,
So does your ephemeral specter in the garden.
but the fireflies, they do not come.
Only bats
dancing wildly against the backdrop of a mature silver maple.
They are guided by sound, not sight.
I have heard that pesticides and light pollution are responsible for their absence.
If they are gone, how will you find your way home?
