He’s on His Third Wife
I tire when
I see my Ex & #3
at all the family to-dos:
but my adult-
children love seeing us together
in the same room.
I tire when
I see my Ex & #3
at all the family to-dos:
but my adult-
children love seeing us together
in the same room.
Slate fingers stretch
from the wooded hillside.
Misshapen, worn, eroded
by time and runoff; cracked
by gravity and spillage.
Splintered shale records
the geologic timeline
of a beggar’s feast of elements,
water fire air and wood
for oblivion’s hunger.
In hollowed coves
beneath the cupped hands—
mossy, damp, & cool,
Pill bugs welcome the showers.
The Bookmobile for People Down on Baker’s Branch
(folk lore from Blue Licks, March 1, ‘97)
Does anyone still remember
long-legged Cecile driving out
from Limestone? The three little Stitt
kids in raincoats, old lady Martin
looking for her “Simple Jess.”
Does anyone beleive
the sky turned to river and
made a fish of Tomas Beck
who never read the alphabet
but liked to read Cecile,
you cannot escape the fact
that Tomas got doubtful Cecile
right where he wanted:
parked up under the covered
bridge, dry as kindling twigs.
The kids got their Seuss, Ms. Stitt
her “Tales from the Marrying Stone”,
still the drench came on and brought
the water to the bottom of the bridge
so they couldn’t see the difference
of the river and the land, when
a pause in the deluge brought
Reverend Estep down in his Ford
for a special order parchment
of Luther and his friends,
the kids and Ms. Stitt piled in the back
and rode to Bucktown to warm
their feet at the country store.
It may have been predestination
or just everything rising that made it happen
but in that mobile boxcar of books
Tomas was in the driver’s seat
not going anywhere, lost in
the sea of Cecile’s brimming eyes
when a cloud burst once more
let loose a torrent like God’s
tears coming down for our sins.
Does anyone still remember
how that old bookmobile rose
like Noah’s ark and floated
in the Licking, bobbing around
the floatsom to land safely
in the flooded bottoms along
Piqua Flats? Five miles in all,
Reverend called it a flat-out miracle.
But the real miracle was how
long-legged Cecile of Limestone
pulled Tomas from the sludge
and piggy-backed him out
all the way to the Brumagen place.
a short stroll dog as weary as I
we take the turn before the turn neither of us all that excited
to begin a week a month a day sometimes
it takes a lot more than letting the past go
It began sixteen years ago
alone in my car
strands of black squirts
sprawled across the
window of my left eye
both eyes afflicted
Numerous laser treatments
executed
staring into a bright
light that zapped
my eyes
till I thought
i would scream
then it stopped
the doctor came at me
with huge shots of Avastun
through my cornea
not always
numbed
i clenched the armrests
with nerves of steel
unable to move
as the needle
pierced my eye
only once you stayed
To watch
You took my hand that day
drove me home
made me tea
you drove me for each
treatment and 2 surgeries
patiently waiting
never complaining
Today he released me
good news
stable
no further damage
Alone in my car
i wept
relief
followed by
gratitude
that you were
by my side
on that uncertain
journey,
Today my daughter
shared
daddy said that you were going blind
all those years
no one ever spoke
those words.
Aloud
Today I wish
you could
savor the victory
you stayed for the
bulk of it
steadfast and strong.
Sometimes, I think about leaving my footprints in a house that sent me no invitation
Did they ever think the Paris Review could be overlooked and underpriced?
The tablecloths needed just one more wash, but they ran out of time before detergent
A locket that once held everything now in a stranger’s hands, on a stranger’s neck, holding nothing
The secrets whispered in the secret garden flew away with the swallows last summer, never to be swallowed again
Sometimes, I think about writing about a house that sent me no invitation
Did they ever think a stranger’s review could hold her hostage for three seasons?
I run the wash as I run out of softener, dancing in the kitchen, curling my ankles to avoid the melancholy on the floor
I lock the back door so everything stays the same
I dream of swinging in the secret garden in my mind, for one day, my linens, too, will be thrown on the floor by a visitor I was never inclined to meet
Alas, what attracts an alien more than a foreign object? The shiny ones were always beaming to me, too…
I’ve never been good at telling people’s ages
I don’t know what that is
But something I do know is that I was young once
You were young once too
I have a really hard time remembering things
I think it’s just how I am
My mom said she noticed it one day
That she remembers more than I do
You’re only a year older than me
I was 13 when I met you
16 when you left
I remember that
How did you do so much damage to me in just three years?
I was wrapped around your goddamn finger
You were just a kid
A victim of your circumstance
But what about me?
I was a kid too
But you never thought about me, did you?
Collateral damage in a war that never should’ve been fought
Left alone and bruised at 16 to deal with the fallout
But now, I’m older
You’d think I’d be over it after so many years
But I’m not
I still feel that scared teenager within me
Trembling
So I’ll hold her like you never did
And I’ll be there for her like you never were
And I’ll never let you touch her again
For Manny Grimaldi and Laura Foley
Thanks for the sparks
Is an organ
Of musical reflection
An album of season and story
Flame and frost
Leaving and returning
But, oh!, the dancing
Is a melting popsicle
A sweet sticky mess
A wastebasket of discarded tissues
For every playful puppy video
Cooing baby left on the doorstep
Hallmark Christmas commercial
Is a muscle
Of body mechanics
Chugging legs up the mountain
Churning the paddle in rapids
One more lap in the pool
The 10,000 of what’s good for you
Is a house divided
Walls thin enough to hear all
The doddering revolutionary
The sunflower farmer
The pity party caterer
The word tossing juggler
Is sometimes a troublemaker
Drummer out of step
With the band
Loud murmurer
During church services
Hummingbird flutter
With no bloom nearby
Is a beating thrum of justice
The righteous gavel
A hung jury
Some flawed martyr
Is a romantic renegade
Leaping onto a skateboard
Racing downhill
Jumping stairs grinding rails
The wind an ear wailing joyride
The sun urging you faster
You unruffled over what could be broken
The jangle-chord part
of my meds, either from
one of them missing and its
complement rattling around
or a piece of me is rattling around,
a car part unconnected.
Spend my whole life
trying to pinpoint what isn’t working
and piece-by-piece get back out again.
Every time you
start it up, you listen for
something out of place.
