Posts for June 13, 2024 (page 7)

I leap off my perch
Which houses me most of the day,
A flash of brown catching my eye,
It dances along the perimeter
And flees away from my grasp,
And as I sprint, I’m on its haunches,
And the creature looks at me,
In his eyes I see my own, but twisted,
Red, mean, small,
In his eyes I see fear,
And I see me,
Fear,
Me,
I try to halt, but my limbs won’t listen,
My legs run, my arm swats,

The last thing I saw in those eyes were my claws,
Talons piercing his heart,
And I stalk away in a mask,
My grief overshadowed by a triumphant face,
His limp, lifeless, little body dangling from my lips,
Rivulets of blood running down my chin,
And as I throw him in the air, trying to set his soul free,
I realize I am the predator,
And that’s why they love me.

Ebony eyes stare
Does he delve for meaning in
Mine as I do his?

a little ladybug on the windowsill in my room
a step outside to get a glimpse if the moon

a text or phone call from a sweet friend
a kiss from my sweetheart at the days end

a favorite dessert for absolutely no reason
the first ripe strawberry of the season

just a few little things that make life worthwhile
and thinking about them make me smile

trace the ridges in your pocket
worry stone long held  runs a mirror at life
like the rub of cold cream across the desert of your painted features
the skin  a geography of stories like so many others  yet alone  just yours
life puts you under pressure  tears plink rhythmically  boring bowls into the surface of your days
not without regret  you can still look forward
this now  this vantage point  this precious piece of earth  this stone held dearly between thumb and four fingers
life dormant  deep under the surface

(1963, for JKL)

Most days fifth grade recess at Saint Thomas More
girls were sent to the swings, the boys all knew
they’d do hoops with the nun. Kevin refused,
skipped out with the girls who never kept score.
When Sister Mary George came to the door
to shout at our dad that his son was askew,
he said his son was made by God just like you.
This was heard all over the house, before
we knew it Kevin stood beside dad in
his sister’s Sunday dress; he politely
asked if Sister could come in and kindly
help him with some of his long division

She seemed off balance as if caught by surprise,
a fearful loss that we could see in her eyes

do you love me? 

night turns to day
seconds drop through the hourglass
as my heart aches so badly for more
time 
time 
time 
just to lay and gaze into your eyes, 
wrap your soft skin in mine 
tangled and glistening, 
your arms feel like home,
and finally
I have what I have been longing for all this time– 

my darling, I have never known a love quite like this. 

It’s hard to look back when you keep moving forward
pushing through time is easy until you turn around for one last glance

I guess that’s why someone thought to create a rearview mirror
something to help us see what’s behind us
at least for the distance that fits in the reflection

The memories fade like an old film’s dim on the big screen
their features grow more obscure 

We dare to close our eyes when we’re the only ones on an otherwise empty road
wishing and willing ourselves to re-trace the outlines and to color in those opaque moments
to feel them and make them real once more

She sounds like
A bustling street
People talking all around her as she weaves between their unmoving figures
Flip-flop feet slap against a delightful combination of cement and brick
As the wind whistles around her ear and through her frizzy, ash-colored hair
Little kids’ excited voices fascinated with the cart owner’s descriptions of vivid action figures and intricate fake tattoos
Only 98 cents each

She tastes like
Berry-blend ice cream
Soft on her tongue, but tough on her teeth
As she bites into it in an attempt to get the overwhelming spice out of her throat
The spice came from the food truck at the edge of the market, long line reaches all the way through the city
One bite into the fluffy, powdery tortilla wrapped around the rich, God-blessed pork fills your whole body with flavor
Before the hot, burning spice settles in
And she realizes the best foods are always the ones she can’t pronounce

She feels like
Dusty antiques
Thousands upon thousands squeezed under tents
She runs her finger along the intricate groves carved delicately into the aged wood
She lets her hand glide through rows and rows of used clothing
Sensing dated patchwork and funky cable knits and a confusing batch of sequins
Rough blankets and rag breeze her fingertips
Reminding her instantly of her father’s calluses, his hand leather-like to the touch, holding hers with such sturdiness, almost like he couldn’t imagine her letting her go
She walks away from that stand

She smells like
A cheap, flimsy-wick candle
With a vague, barely descriptive name
Filled with satisfying poetry, but lacking any common sense
Rich artificial fragrance filled her nose, moving her to her brain, wistfully clouding her judgment
She hands the owner two Washingtons and takes the wrapped-up cylinder with a bright, cartoonish smile
Walking through the rest of the market, bombarded with smells so intense her eyes start watering
Thousands of cultures represented in a one-street fair
Punching lime mixed with heavily seasoned rice mixed with juicy teriyaki chicken
One flavorful scent after another

She looks like
My mother
Same eyes when they smile
Same habits when they’re nervous
Same face they make when I dance, identical proud gazes
The lady dealing out tarot cards at a stand towards the end of the street
Says reincarnation is real
I’m not sure if I want to believe her
Or not

Once the paper would disappear
From the printer tray only to
Reappear in flight.
Fleets of aircraft
Alchemically creased by small fingers
In the back of classrooms or in church pews.
I never thought to ask what he thought while
Taking aim at the horizon

Last year when clearing out
Childhood’s flotsam and jetsam,
We found a book of paper airplane instructions.
It’s possible the book preserves
Forgotten craft like a hangar, but
I have not checked its pages.

We gather, this dysfunctional family
related by trauma once removed, in this
pretend living 
room, each on our own maroon, beige, or
taupe pleather island,  and
pretend we are living 
our new normal, without an ever-present shadow
darkening our minds cast by a
mass, a lymph node, a lesion, a spiked or
bottomed out blood level, or some other
undropped shoe. 

A painted horse stands in front of the bank of windows,
covered in folk art quilt square patterns, tree limbs, and
green like the woods my 
doctor says I should be well out of by
now, and I try my best to believe her. 

I smell the hospital cleaner, block out ads for cancer drugs playing on a loop on the monitor above my head, try not to stare as the older gentleman speaks too loudly to his daughter, smile at a woman with a scarf on her bald head, and another with new regrowth, warmly, but not enough to invite conversation. I must stay focused, alert, in case an opportunity arises to delude myself that I have
control over my biannual  bloodwork results. 

My doctor is calm and confident,
letting soothing words of affirmation soak into my
skin as she palpates my neck and armpits.
I exhale, fight back tears of relief,
I don’t want to stay this afraid eight years
out. I was not a hypochondriac in the
before-times, but worry requires upkeep. 

On my way out I see a parent I know
coming in, her hair long since grown back,
cheeks flushed and eyes healthy, but staying
focused forward. I smile and say hi but do not
stop to ask about her kids I taught. She is
focused and vigilant, as all of us here must be.