The most oppressive silence happens after you’ve said the wrong thing and then you have to sit and wait for the haze to pass. I’ve gotten familiar with this form of pollution lately. Maybe this is what dying of lung disease feels like. I am probably dead now. I probably died all those other times too.
Fuck it, breathe it in
Dedicated to Lisa Haneberg
They say that nothing rhymes with “orange.”
I submit the word “door hinge.” The hinge of a door.
Orange. Door hinge.
Is it cheating to use a compound word
to complete the rhyme?
I honestly don’t care.
Have you heard the rhymes
Bob Dylan comes up with?
I do not think I have ever seen
an orange door hinge.
I don’t think anyone has ever had
an orange door hinge.
Or else surely the misguided myth
that nothing rhymes with orange
could not have persisted this long.
Now we can anoint a true unrhyme-able word:
antidisestablishmentarianism.
If I could go back and whisper
in the ear of my child self
I would say what my
daughters must know.
You are enough, you are pure
love in human form and you
were not wanted to satisfy
some empty space, you were
born because the world
seeks your light.
Illuminate those you touch
and share your shimmering
heart. Do not allow
malevolent souls to douse
your radiance by taking
your gifts selfishly.
Love through action so that
those held in shadows
grow warm in your glow.
You are made of stardust,
you are eternal love.
KW 6/27/23
I smell wildfire and smoked
wings as I venture through haze, its murky
hand reaching down to sting
my lungs and scratch my eyes. It has already suffocated
the sun, its claws digging into her golden throat until she could only sputter
dull droplets that could barely penetrate the soot,
which veils what should be a sunny summer evening. The smog lurks
atop roofs, less like morning fog that glides over dewy glens,
more like sheer curtains that entomb hospital beds, sallow
fabric just thick enough to mask your grandma’s bleached
skin, too thin to hide her gaunt cheeks.
Although smoke prowls
above our heads, whispering tales of melted flesh, we ignore
the phantom and its prophecies
and stare straight ahead at shopping carts overflowing with frivolous
trinkets.
I look down at the bin of watermelons tucked just past the sliding glass door.
I dig through the stack until I find one whose skin is as green as Ontario’s cedars
last spring, as green as my backyard’s maples to distract
myself from the smog overhead, its promises of woes
to come. The further I walk into fluorescent aisles, the more I forget
what I left behind.
In fact, I don’t remember why I wrote this poem in the first place.
They’ll tell me my eyes are stunning
But I think they’re too small
They’ll tell me they aren’t mad at me
But I won’t sleep, thinking they are
They’ll tell me my poetry is good
But I think it’s mediocre
They’ll tell me my body is perfect
But all I see is the opposite
They’ll tell me I’m a sweetheart
But really they mean I’m too nice
They’ll tell me I’ll find someone one day
But they’ve been telling me that for years
They’ll tell me it gets better
But they never tell me how
They’ll tell me all these words
But they go in one ear and out the other
I don’t think I’ll ever be convinced,
I’ll just have to find my own words to believe
A lanky, whisky-brown brindled coon hound, sniffed train passengers secrets.
I need a casserole recipe
for the infirm and the grieving.
As a Southern female friend
I feel empty handed.
Desserts aren’t enough
to heal someone.
Casseroles,
maybe soups,
can.
