She’s here
With me
I know that we are meant to be
But I want
And I need to
Know that this is certainty
Cause I have feeling that there’s someone else out there
Like the girl staring at me
I walk by her
Can she tell that I can’t breathe
Cause I am stuck
Glued like a fly
But there really is no reason why
Cause she’s the reason there are tears on this letter
That’s why I’m leaving in my brand new car
Cause I can’t bear another day
Where I walk alone on my own way
pressed against the forehead of night
purring in their own language,
a system I couldn’t crack.
Dusk with its desperate colors of erasure,
battered blue, wine-flushed.
The wind whispers a secret
to the long-haired maples,
something dark and puzzling.
Squirrels in the live oaks
and wingbeats shuddering the treetops
become a kind of song
that swims up out of the past.
In spite of everything, the stars
shimmer in the distance;
the moon comes out to stare,
stark, unsettling.
Fireflies pulse in the woods
like a heart beating
to the rhythm of
We are here, yes, we are still here.
There is a brief, startling moment
when I fly out of myself,
forget the impossible weight of being human,
become a thick black fist
tilting on one wing,
knowing the sweet kinship of rising,
unraveling the sky.
All night I hear voices
clear as a country lake, pure, bottomless:
Listen, this song is for you.
Try to remember
you are a descendant of
the whirling cosmos and water.
At a crossroads, I meet the dead,
the old griefs harbored in my chest
ike a thick chunk of fat.
I feel homesick waves.
Poured out like a bucket of wild berries,
I come back to my body,
willing to remember
I am becoming a holy place,
wreathing myself in the living fire.
I want to taste the sweetness,
unfold into a world of reverie,
feasting on darkness but needing light,
slowly curling myself back into
a vessel of tenderness
traveling toward incandescence.
*Cento of lines/phrases from Edward Hirsch’s collection Living Fire
Layers of contrasting fabric, in a variety of designs and colors lay on my mother’s bed. When I was young, the reds and blues and pink and purple soothed, invited me in, the warmth surrounded me.
Now, when I look at one of those quilts, faded and torn, raw edges here and there, batting peeking out as I mend with scraps of silk, I can think of nothing but her. Each patch brings a memory or question.
Oh, Mom, how did you do this? How did you know to cut up each square and triangle, choose each color, different patterns? Where did you learn to layer the pink and red remnants from the dresses you made for me?
Every quilt bleeds colors oozing blue into aqua with green, reds and yellows become orange.
Oh, Mom, when did you do this work, the laying out cloth, cutting and sewing, the hand stitching? While daddy was at work? When I was at school? I saw no evidence of the work you had been doing all day, now tucked away in a basket next to your sewing machine in the living room.
When I studied art and learned color theory, I brought you my scraps and suggested you make an art quilt with the silk I had dyed. And I gave you a color wheel.
“Oh,” you smiled and said softly, handing it back to me, “I have one of these. I never could learn how to use it.”
When I returned a few years later, you gave me a log cabin wall hanging with each cabin in a different color of my silk. Reds for the fire of summer, cool blues of winter, burnt orange and olive green for fall and the palest of all colors for spring.
He came up for just a cup of coffee,
but in the month the southpaw was with the team,
he threw that high heater and a vicious sinker
(fishing for strikes)
and his knuckler
danced all over.
Hitters laced frozen ropes
and the occasional can of corn,
and when they skyed it you knew
he’d dodged the bullet that inning.
When his stuff was working,
and his mechanics were good
he’d pitch a gem and rarely
got shelled or roughed up.
Even when he uncorked a wild one
he’d work out of a jam. He was
always out in front of the batter,
ahead quickly.
If the count evened
he could pitch out of a hole,
make the payoff pitch and
stick a fork in ‘em.
He never got sent to the showers early
but pitched his lights out and had them
eating out of his hand.
Too bad
he hung up his spikes
all too soon
after making the show.
I am a Hampdenite,
which is not a religion
unless you consider
John Waters a spiritual leader
as he has anointed
this sparkly neighborhood
of Charm City Baltimore
with many a blessing
This wonderland
of glitter, feather boas and
a dare to be different
joie de vivre
seduces others from afar
to promenade
treasure hunt
and prize
what is old
as new
Yet in its beginning
The neighborhood
coalesced
around the
working class family
housing those
who labored
in the Mills
with purpose and skills
muscle and sweat
know-how and will
backs bent, hours long
Perhaps a nightly brew
this much I knew
Then I became lost
in my gaze
upon seeing some
early phaze
of Hampden
when I saw the time
before there were sidewalks
In Photographs
I saw rivers of mud
underfoot
flowing through
my neighborhood
There were
long lost residents
navigating
with the dried mud
caked on their legs
wearing the land
as garments,
as evidence
of ownership
of place.
Before there were sidewalks
those nameless pictured people
were the living roots
of community,
once revered,
with all knowing
each other’s names
I gazed
upon these early
inhabitants,
as though I could see
the faces of gods and goddesses
of those mythic beginnings
born during the
Days of Mud
they knew the trudge
and the tricks of travel
choosing to stay
while becoming
the
First Families of Hampden,
Before there were sidewalks
I always hated ping pong.
Such a boring game of the same thing
Over and over.
The ball is on your side, now its on my side, now it’s back on yours, and then back on mine.
Who even cares?
You passed it to me first,
And I hit it right back like the
Fool I always have been.
But I don’t want any part of it,
And frankly, I never did.
But I’ll play along,
Because what else am I supposed to do?
I can only watch the ball bounce against the tile
So many times, before it begins to irritate me even more
Than the match did to begin with.
As much as I hate the game,
I think I love winning
Even more.
One day it’s June. Past mid June and I realize. July will be here soon and then. Vacation. And whatever follows.
One day it’s thirty years since an event. And I realize I am such a different person. Today.
I lived here then but I have gone and returned. Again since. How odd that life takes us to certain spots. Previously I remember driving down this street. The street in my current address. Heading to park for basketball games. Something going on at the church up the street. One way and confusing. Now it’s the norm. I am comfortable and never would have imagined.
One day I’m alone and time seems wasted. Parts of life seem wasted. It appears so much lies ahead though. June reminds me. How much I wanted my own story.
One way. Back to one way and I just don’t know. We had to be wrong. If not, well, we’re all doomed. People are still going to that event. It continues and I recall that being where I felt moved to react. Become someone different and I did. I just didn’t think it would end up like it has ended up.
