the lock picker
forced entry into my insides.
you spilled them out.
you ruined the carpet.
you picked them back up,
shoved them back in,
and called me
brand new.
forced entry into my insides.
you spilled them out.
you ruined the carpet.
you picked them back up,
shoved them back in,
and called me
brand new.
i feel sorry for the woman you were forgetting
when my sweater was neatly laid on your couch.
you forgot her while in bed, even when your dog barked her name.
you forgot her while watching me take off my cocoon of hockey jersey and denim, becoming smooth skin in front of your eyes.
you forgot her when we tried to stick needles with diamonds into my tears. I had pleaded: push them through,
even if i cry. but you didn’t. (now you have given me no diamonds, while the woman you’ve forgotten has two.)
i feel sorry for the woman you were forgetting
even if you are undeserving of hopeful regrets,
i hope i was worth regretting
The deer munch on that cool, dewy snack
Of hostas;
As if I placed them just for their early morning stroll.
The roots
Of the dead ferns
Are withered and twisted;
Appearing to have toiled the long years required
Of this once-tobacco-farm.
The blooms
Of the twelve-year-old hydrangea
Have appeared for only the second time
in all those summers.
Perhaps
The eight-foot azalea
Residing beside it has stolen all the nutrients,
Like an aggressive twin.
The seventy-year old peonie
Blooms on cue as if she were
Still a teen,
In search of a worthy suitor.
The same love and care
Are given to all.
Some thrive.
Some do not.
Still the hummingbirds
with the vigor of youth
On their beating wings,
Return thirsty.
Summer-after-summer.
You have never heard of me
though you know my sister,
Susan B. Anthony, abolitionist,
driver of the movement
for women’s rights.
She lived her life out loud,
in public.
I preferred a quieter life, though
I agreed with my sister’s causes
It was I and not my sister
who attended the Seneca Falls
Women’s Rights Convention in 1848.
I was the first woman to be paid
a man’s salary to serve as a school
principal. My wages paid for my mother’s
care, and the upkeep of our home
in Rochester. Unable to vote, when
taxes were due, I wrote on each check
“Paid under protest. Taxation without
representation is still tyranny.”
My sister and I were arrested together
for voting in the 1876 presidential
election, found guilty in minutes.
We refused to pay the fine.
We now lie side by side
In the Mount Hope Cemetery.
Every election day, people come
and place their “I voted” stickers
on our gravestones.
We
romanticize
her sudden spells of sleep
in mid-midnight conversations
as her snoring smashes through silence,
without notice
only seconds
after she brushes off claims
rest arrives fifteen to twenty minutes
later
She always told stories,
not stopping though her mind
changed course and thoughts
traced the bend of the river,
slush in moss and rock.
Others hurried by her,
stopping to adjust a blanket
or inject a meal.
Tears rested on her cheeks,
abalone shells on a sand swept beach
after a sudden rain.
She cupped an ancient summer ocean
and poured it over her face.
Words fell jumbled from her mouth,
swayed back and forth, the weight
of an old pendulum, she told stories.
Pain rushed in, her new partner,
a constant companion,
jealous lover.
The moon hung low enought to touch,
light danced as grace across her frailty.
Wild grape vines in autum dark,
wrapped around a cedar sapling.
Eyes focused on memory repeated.
She told stories still.
i’m always gonna remember everything
sometimes a tattoo itches but mostly it stings
snapped a rubber band on my wrist to see if you’d care
i’ll sit at your feet while you take the chair
heard your car outside of my window
when i already said that i can’t go
well i can’t stay angry because i always wanted you to chase me
got a spam call from your area code
hoped it was you so i answered the phone
i wish hating you as much as i loved you didn’t feel so good
i wish i could kill you but i never would
A glance of your eyes
Is a glimpse of the trees
Where light catches leaves
There’s pine on the breeze
and the forest floor breathes
With reverential gaze
All our problems get lost
In the mountains and moss
And a glance of your eyes
Is a glimpse of the trees
So take me to the mountains
Where love’s color is green
Take me to the forest
Darling, look at me
