Engulf
Moon sliver of hope
Waves upon waves
Salt on my lips and in my eyes
We are a gulf
apart
What they didn’t tell me–
you have to wear a hospital gown
with wires taped to your chest,
an IV in one arm,
a blood pressure cuff on the other
and that every 3 minutes
they increase the speed and elevation.
So there I am–breathless–
in running shoes and pink hospital gown
tied with a loose string
gaping open in the back
while I trudge steadily uphill.
On the wall before me
as I climb that imaginary hill,
a poster of Positano,
the glamour of the Italian Riviera
just beyond reach.
I continue this Sisyphus ascent
watching red numbers on the screen
increase to 134 when the attending male nurse
whisks me off the treadmill
and onto a table where he has 30 seconds
to measure my vitals under stress.
In case you’re interested, I passed
despite my advanced age. No one requested
my review of the experience so instead,
just for you,
I wrote this poem.
Mother was royal harvest mist
Words escape me like soft-flying lightning bugs
their gentle signals pulsing in the air
Morse Code dashes and dots float in the warm breeze
and I am nowhere close to catching any of them
It must be better to watch in awe
to let them stay free for others to view and read
Running barefoot through the woods
Stepping on briars and brambles but
Without much of a care in the world
Feet cut all up, still whooping loudly
A feral Appalachian child, wild and
Free as the birds in the sky above,
All summer long in the hills of my
Eastern Kentucky home; oh to be
Just another wild creature in the
Cool of the woods, no cares at all
a naked
body is
just a naked
body
until
someone sees
it. my father wants me to read
a wilting book called God Loves
Laughter. my mother
wants
me
to take
my singular bottle of prescribed
antidepressants. i count the ripples
like tree rings.
years. only after
do i
jump
in and let the cloth
lick up on my
skin. i would live
waiting to look like myself or
at the least
a smeared oil pastel caricature
but then
i wouldn’t
live.
Behind the breath of
I’m setting up camp in the belly of the beast
Prying its jaws open
Crawling down the esophagus
With no intention of leaving
Things could be worse
But things could also be far better
//
I want to meet my demise by my own hand
It’s much easier than allowing someone else
To lift my chin
Letting them wrap their hands around my throat
Praying that they don’t squeeze
You used to love reading my poetry.
Comparing it to the likes of Dickinson and Bishop,
fascinated by this ability to capture my darkest moments and relive them through prose.
Something tells me you would not be so eager to read my words now.
Because you see, old lover,
time has not been kind to your memory.
And should you ever come across this, and wonder if it is really you to whom I speak.
Well,
the fun is all in the mystery.
It’s not a question of carnal capabilities
(though the out-of-practice spine does ache something fierce)
but more a matter of spiritual endurance.
There are so many words on the page to be spoken
in that methodical chanting of a hundred people praying together.
This is only my third time at one of these services,
(not that I really know why I’m here)
and if anyone wants to think down on me because my butt is down,
they should consider more I’d be involved if just one person
would take time to ask where the hell I’ve been for the last two years.
As it is, I inhale incense while inspecting a cathedral that looks
so much different now that it’s not my weekly home.
I once heard there are over five hundred crowns hidden throughout
in decorations and architecture. I want to find them all.
My eyes brush over alcoves holding statues along the back wall.
One is of Mother Mary holding a playful infant Jesus;
the other is Joseph, patron saint of workers, travelers, and dreamers
(among many other things)
and sudden tears threaten to gush forth like Jesus’s pierced side.
I need him now more than I ever have, both for the places I’ve gone
and the tantalizing journeys I perilously hope to embark on.
Maybe this is the reason I’m here. Some Heavenly voice found me
amongst life’s gale force winds and is beckoning me forward.
He’d be proud of me, even if I have to sit for a moment.
It takes a lot of care and nurturing to heal a troubled spirit
and I wonder if Joseph ever had to teach Jesus something similar.
Inspired, I get back on my knees.
Let’s see if I can last through another page.
