Posts for June 4, 2024 (page 9)

turkeys scurry across corn fields
at 18 mph. foxes howl far from here.
kentucky has no fancy wildlife refuge
for them. what kentuckian would
pay $5 a carload to see wild turkeys?
certainly not me. the dogs i walk
hold them in no higher regard
than any other creature that dares dash
across their path. they break free of me,
leashes trailing, into ravine. and so I
go, run after, tumble down steep slopes,
startled shrieking, into shallow puddle
to find dogs barking up to a flock
roosting high above. long months
of leaf decay sticks to me. they call
this the herb layer? there is a smell.
i look round. realize i am the sight.
the animal on display–in disarray.
wild human. no one would pay $5
a carload to view me, either.
or would they?

If I could take the picture again,
I’d have my head slightly more tête-à-tête
with her phone so that people could read
the red and blue letters of the foam fabric hat
just a little more clearly. But as the photo is
they say it’s the best I have ever taken.

Eyes transpiercing the camera, I hold my glass
angled so the beer within just licks my lips
like ocean waves tickling feet in the sand.
You need to show that to everyone, they tell me.
Make it your Facebook profile pic! Add it
to every dating app you have! Ladies beware.

Before a night downtown with my family of friends,
one guy gave me this hat along with a promise
to buy me a hot dog for every compliment received.
My current balance is eight, and let me tell you
few things hit like an all beef, all fixin’s hot dog
when you can barely stand on your own two feet!

I proudly wore that hat all night just like
every other stupid thing I’ve been comfortable enough to do.
I’ve left our hangouts coiled in glowsticks and leis,
once a cherry blossom wagasa parasol I would not close
on the walk back to the car at three in the morning.
What will we get into next? I heartily await.

Because no matter what else is going on,
whether uneventful calm or overbearing storm,
we’ll always make time for dinner or drinks.
Can’t make it today? How ’bout later in the week?
A time to drop our guard and be ourselves
and have copious amounts of unforgettable fun.

The crickets are up
early this morning
summoning the sun.

Sourdough starter foams
winter woolens dry
under summoned sun.

tied sailors’ knots in ropes three times the size
of two of his ankles at 15, in the Navy since he lied
to the recruiter. Turn another leaf in his scrapbook
a photo where he’s squared off boxing a boy two times
his weight, but I bet Dad’s gold-capped tooth glinted
in the lowing Greek sun, gifting a clean left hook
honed from bare fist fights across the hills back home

alone top deck to dream about exotic ports from old
sailors’ tales between flasks of rum or whiskey
slipped so smooth to the pretty Kentucky boy
who’d known every rock rise and briar patch
in woods along the Ohio river that cast a spell
beckoning him to strange lands with every barge
bellow that chugged away from his anthill-of-a-town

the tightest rope of all wound his heart as the Roosevelt
sailed beyond his river’s reach, caves beneath midnight
blue waters rose from depths between sea mountains
and Singapore dives, Sydney brew halls didn’t give shit
if a boy lost his sea legs among men who’d trolled through
uncountable years, their aftershave thick as the smoke

from their free cigarettes. The tattooed anchor pinked
around edges on his fair skin as his thoughts swam
to the other side of the world to his hunting dog, Sally.
His gold tooth gleamed less in each new seaport. How
many cigarettes did it take to cross the Atlantic, sail around Cape
Hope, ponder what caused the White Cliffs of Dover?

How his heart rope tightens when gazing at Kodak Brownie
captures of the Seven Wonders, his voice grows down
from trying not to tell it all. Sydney was where he dwelled
in his stories I’ve been all over the world, no need to go back
In the last image of him in yet another bar, his smoky eyes peer
straight into the camera, his gray-whiskered buddies on each side
one hand on their beers, the other around his neck, eyes unfocused.
Through the haze, I see my father’s aged, now the country boy
with the thin veil of knowing, fresh on his face. Neptune’s Bar
scrawled in white shoe polish in the long mirror behind him
backwards.

Came of age wearing
Polyester leisure suits,
Puka shell necklaces,
And platform shoes.
Now any permanent fashion statement
Seems a bad idea.  

Thankfully, I could shed those
Tacky, trendy fashions,
And cut that out-of-control hair,
But a tattoo I would have been stuck with
For life.

What could I have
Permanently
Inked onto my body
That I would never regret?
A barbed wire arm band?
A motorcycle brand?
A catchy saying?
Nope. Nope. Nope.  

So I did not approve of my kid’s
Tattoos or piercings.
She never asked my opinion,
I never said a word,
But no doubt she knew.
She was too smart to miss the unspoken.

Most of her tattoos were hidden
Where her Dad
Could not see them.
For that I was thankful.
How many? I have no idea.

Now that she is gone,
I try to think of something
I could buy or build or create
That would be a permanent memorial to her?
A painting? A sculpture? A song? A poem? A piece of jewelry?

She will be shocked
And amused, I think,
When I show up
On the other side of Jordan
With an inked tribute to her
Tattooed on my arm.

Rails hum, hiccupped by ancient rusted bolts, the poet picks up her pen.

Starting with my head, I notice golden curls
unraveling softly over my collarbones.
Just below, my breasts gently sink stickily against the top fold of my belly skin.
I look down and finally believe what an acquaintance said:
I am one of those women in a Boticelli painting. 
Sliding my hands down my sides, I feel my roundness
without moral implication. 
My hips and legs melt into the surface beneath me.
I notice bruises on my thighs and shins that say, “Yes! Life happens here.”
I move my feet from side to side and, as if speaking when spoken to,
my ankles whisper, “Loosen me, I need to walk, dance, pedal.”
The visible veins at the top of my feet remind me of winding water bodies.
My toes are tiny and precious.

A challenge to readers: write a compassionate body scan poem for yourself. Reflect on each part of you that you notice. Be as kind and loving to you as you can.

Maybe I busted your lip,

               But your face was in the way of my fist.
You could have moved,
                  so why didn’t you?
I’m sorry your blood trickles my knuckles.
I’m sorry I kicked the door off the hinges.
I’m sorry you were in my way.
                       But who are you to talk?
      You could have ducked.
You could have talked down the brute of my fist.
   But you didn’t. You sweet thing.
You sweet
fucking idiot.
The only wrinkles in your brain are
            results of the cracks in your skull.
You were a pouting puppy,
a sensitive scrape of roadkill.
I was the semi.
You were natural selection.
I’m sorry you
can’t seem to get out of my way.

You hid my keys and expected the night to go your way?
                  Baby, that’s not how the world works.
That’s not how I work.
You were a speed bump to me.

Baby, i’m sorry. You gotta forgive me. You’re lucky I still love you, you know that?

You know that.

       I’m lucky to have you.

I hit you because I love you.

That’s what love is.

I’m sorry. Are all of your efforts this angry? Do you want me to hate you? I chased you down the hallway.
You slipped on the carpet and I pinned your wrist to the floor. 

I made you breakfast. You’re telling me you don’t like bacon?
I shouldn’t have done anything then.
Blame a man for trying why don’t you? See, this is our problem! Kindness doesn’t work on you.
You never learn your lesson. You see my fist cock back.

So move.