Posts for June 4, 2024 (page 3)

galahad

fifteen years from roughly 8:00 to 4:00 for

(lately) panic attacks and paltry pay

and kids pouting me to death when they don’t get their way.

people puckering their lips at me always say,

“Middle school? Jesus Christ. I couldn’t fucking do it.”

guess what, nerds, this day was my last goddamn day.

it hits in the middle of the day
when the zen of manual labor
wears away the vapid thoughts
I think of how you moved your hips
us coiled together on the floor
of how the Rolling Stones
blared from the speakers
was enough to cover up
the noises not meant
for the neighbors

The yellows, oranges, and reds of fall
Are a distant memory
The green sprouts and white and pink blossoms
Not yet awakened from slumber
Why explore the bare and brown?
In the barren is the beauty 

Devoid of leaves
The tree trunk takes a sharp
Horizontal right turn
Large branches reach 
Appearing to cradle the sky in its hand

The cliff line displays intricate patterns 
Cut deep into the rock by ancient waters 
Large imposing rocks 
Once a part of the mighty cliff
Now settles into the dirt below
Covered in a heavy layer
Of soft, plush moss

The vibrance of spring, summer, and fall
Capture all the attention 
But the barren is the beauty 

I don’t know
what’s killing you,

I’m sorry,

you’re just out here growing,
trying to be beautiful.

Sometimes you’re struggling
through dense forest where
undergrowth has eaten the path
and block off all sense of east, west,
north, south, and night is coming fast. 

Sometimes you’re wandering green
hospitals corridors just to stay awake,
ears assaulted by random bells and chimes
and all the arrows and signs lead you
back to the same dead end. 

Sometimes you’re cooking in your
mother’s kitchen and you hand
her the flour before she asks. She seasons
your stew with a pinch of something 
and a story about your grandmother. 

Sometimes you’re sitting on the dock,
early morning, feet sunk in cool water,
steam rising from lake and coffee cup.
One loon calls to another, and you
have nothing to do, nowhere to go. 

When my husband and I walk back up the bike path
near our house, midday in June, on one side green
grasses and pink-and-white clover so delicious-looking
I can’t believe a thousand bees haven’t settled in,
on the other side a stream of cars and trucks, a rush
so noisy we can’t chat, people hurtling to places
I’m glad I don’t have to go, past a yellow tree
I don’t know the name of but it’s in bloom,
like tiger swallowtails amid the leaves, then
we round our corner and pass a front yard sale
where a small blond girl sits at a table with a cookie tin,
an ice chest at her feet, I bet selling lemonade and treats
to people who go garage-saling on a warm June day
but we don’t stop, my mind’s pacing with my feet,
I’m like Ross Gay, buzzing with imaginary bees
and delight, so when we open our door
and turn on the attic fan I go straight to my laptop
and write this poem before we have lunch, despite
my stomach’s rumbling, at least words are juicy, I’ll add
capers to our salad and we’ll sit out on the back porch
with cold green tea and feel the breeze.

In my left brain there are reasons to give in to my worst impulse,
there are statistics for my lack of future, there are unreachable numbers,
and rows of violent images that clot in my brain: the pin of limbs,
the sweet slip-away of Ativan, that cool blue fog descending heaven-like.

In my right brain there are reasons to live, there are endless glimpses
of beautiful things, a mirage of a small house sparkling on the coastline,
a garden bloated with fattened roses, a dog lapping up August wind,
a lover with her body outlined by twisting veins of gold sunglow.

In my left fist there is the collected bones of the woman I could’ve been,
her dazzled grin now pockmarked, blackened like bad fruit, her body ruined,
her once lovely brain puddling out of the cavity of her mouth. She was perfect,
they’d say, she could’ve been perfect without revealing the bruises.

In my right fist there is the hand of the child I was once, blue eyes on fire,
hair vanilla-white, skinned knees and painted smile glittering from upside-down
as she once dangled off the side of the bed, making herself motion sick.
She would spin and spin in circles, spin and spin and spin and spin.

In my left lung there is a pool of coughed-up vomit, bubbling yellow regrets
swimming in the image of the white bathroom tiles, head spun off-axis.
I am disgusting, there is no God that would touch me, much less save me,
with a hand down my throat, reaching to grab at the oozing heart.

In my right lung there is a pool of cold Normandy ocean water, circa 2023,
my exchange-student partner glimmering in the reflection as it ripples 
with lines of kelp and tides of shells called couteaux in French or knives in English.
My mouth kisses the blade of a foreign tongue, a foreign tempting tomorrow.

In my left ear there are sirens haunting the noon, shrill heartless wails 
painting the air cross-red and cop-blue, and the lonely empty tones 
of heartbeats tracked on a monitor, the lines raising and raising
and staying far too fast, abnormally racing and breaking and falling.

In my right ear there is only my mother’s softened heartbeat
ringing and ringing and ringing and ringing.

this is what
I would like to remember:

This summer day
Taking our hoods down
when it starts raining
All around us
a scramble 
The three of us look at each other
and stay right where we are

We watch the storm drag in
like a turning up
of wet soil
I say
/Drizzle my ass/
and laugh because
ice cream is dripping
down our fingers

We grab hands
Spin
A crinkle of ponchos
Mud between our toes
/well
what can we do?/
Spread our arms
Face off with the sky
/the sooner you accept it/
Wipe glasses on wet shirts
Smile smile
smile

Easy is running one mile after you
got off the bus, trying to wake yourself
up. Easy is watching a storm roll in across
the mountains in Virginia from the safety
of your hotel room. Real easy is snatching
a glass from the cupboard and pouring
lemon lime soda in it. Real easy is switching
your alarm on so you can wake up in time
to catch breakfast at eight. Real difficult is
passing your first statistics test in an online
college class. Real difficult is getting back up
after you bust your chin open on the sidewalk
while you were biking. Difficult is running
nine miles before the clock strikes nine in
the morning. Difficult is writing a poem on
a website when you can’t find inspiration.