Standing Above the Impudent Grasses
old purple iris
peeks from overgrown garden
no apology
i am delicate
i didn’t learn this until i was taught
ten years with a woman
who only knows my struggles
and the triumphs i give her
the ones around me see something else
because that picture was created
by those who raised me
and said “you’re special,
smart, talented, better.”
so then what happens when reality
hits
there really is no such thing as special
because everything is special
so then by definition
nothing
is
i am sad but grateful
a dichotomy between worlds
of acceptance and hatred
and maybe someday
i’ll write a poem without the
pronoun i am
She woke up one Sunday morning
She said a prayer and asked for strength
She put her makeup on just perfect
And for the first time in a long time
The mirror showed her grace
She heard him stirring in the kitchen
Last nights whiskey in the air
She could hear him carrying on and cussin’
Then the woman in the mirror said
You gotta get out of here
Cause you’ve been
Broken down and kicked around
One too may times
You finally found the strength
And he ain’t gonna break your faith
She said I might go back to school
I know you take me for a fool
Despite what you say
Something occured to me today
Guess what…
I am pretty
He took a drag off his cigarrette
With that patronizing look on his face
He said…awww here we go again
You got that little suitcase in your hand
Let me guess…you’re gonnna find your dreams today
She said, you know I just might
But either way I’m gonna get out..I’m gonna get out
of this god forsaken place
Cause I’ve been
Broken down and kicked around
One too may times
I finally found the strength
And you ain’t gonna break my faith
She said I might go back to school
I know you take me for a fool
Despite what you say
Something occured to me today
Guess what…
I am pretty
You are my sunshine
Spins on a vinyl
The scratched record changes the singers voice
Words are skipped
Slurred
his voice now disorted
In my dreams
There is always music playing
Songs like this
Simple
Innocent
Childish
But yet they always warp
Into my nightmares soundtrack
The record scratches as the music prepares to play again
a repeated occurrence
I know what song is being played
its always the same
One Last Meaningless Conversation with Dad
The first (and last) time he picked me up at the jail, he gave me
a cigarette, asked if I was ok, said I could use his shower.
I said, “thank you,” and watched the wind wrestle the roadside cypresses
lower. The window defrosting to a clarity I could not make out. Thanks-
giving rain charcoaled the highway’s overcast shush.
Later, showered, calmed, in civilian pants and a pair
of clean white socks he tossed to me, I lit a second cigarette. Exhaled
the tension of arrest and the congestion of D pod,
contagious muscle ache of the county lock-up. Picked up a Nat Geo
from the table to forget the nothing I knew I had to do.
“You’re a fuck up,” he said.
I shuddered. Stared at Europa, a cutaway diagram, an icy shell.
The room recently mopped, Murphy’s oil after. A crime scene cover-up.
My nostrils twitched with the scent of oven cleaner: his comment. Mercy.
I remembered when I was younger
mercy.
