Higher Meaning
What is poetry but
breath entering my body,
then exiting in exhale?
What I am but breath and
words on the page
capturing a moment I felt alive?
What is life
but a collection of
moments?
What is poetry but
breath entering my body,
then exiting in exhale?
What I am but breath and
words on the page
capturing a moment I felt alive?
What is life
but a collection of
moments?
Every time it storms or rains
I have to find a way to prevent
water from finding its way
into my garage.
It’s a new problem.
Before, there was a tree,
a tree that created a natural
barrier, but also caused
destruction of my back
concrete patio with its roots.
I can’t decide which is worse
but I sure would love
to not have a damaged patio
or water in my garage.
Thinking about a solution
is as heavy as a tree or a flood.
KW
6/26/24
I
At the iced window
I exhale on frozen glass
the bluebird mobile
spins over your baby bed
empty of all as I am
II
The red bean bag chair
is where I would have nursed you
same as your brother
with breasts full of milk now dry
I keen with the winter wind
swift songs of voltage
for the vigilant to hear.
be still – hear the noise
beneath the white noise machine?
Crazy-making as silence.
the people behind me
strangers though deep in conversation
he explains his family lives in Brazil
interesting, though I won’t share more
except he mentioned they’re
“in the rainforest”
I once again accept the normalcy of my life
simply going to visit family
Tulsa via Chicago
I’ll be there for lunch
and I congratulate myself for choosing air travel
as I, for a short time, considered driving
a man is snoring nearby
I rarely sleep on planes
I never did mind that it rained
I figured the earth has her own sorrows she wishes to express
Pouring down in a torrent of pain and sadness
Just as any of the rest of us are allowed to do
A thunderous roar like a wolf howling, jaw cracking, the popping sound echoing into the ears forming a loud guttural scream
He’s 13 now
dyed his beautiful long blonde hair
black
and his fingernails
black
and this year in his Christmas stocking
more nail polish–purple eggplant, sapphire blue and black.
He prefers 5B drumsticks–
better for a larger than life sound,
will use 5A if he’s not just banging away loud loud loud.
He still likes to sleep over sometimes on the couch nearby
with a light on
lets me read him his 3 favorite storybooks:
The Story of Ping, Russell the Sheep, Amos and Boris
which is about the unlikely friendship of a whale and a mouse–
He says ok Mimi you can read to me if YOU want to…
still falling asleep before I finish–
the perfect time to kiss him lightly on the forehead.
ACT 1.
“OH, THIS IS YOU BEING VULNERABLE?
YEAH. THAT’S SCARY.”
I’M THE GUY WHO CAN’T WHISPER.
AND SHE’S THE GIRL WHO CAN’T WHISPER (AND DOESN’T SHUT UP).
TOGETHER, WE CAN’T WHISPER.
RESERVATIONS
HE DOESN’T GET ME. NOT ALL OF ME.
HE DOESN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT I GO THROUGH, BEING TREATED LIKE A WOMAN WHO DOESN’T SHUT UP.
Rain smacks at Earth’s platen deafening us with the raw hiss of meaning.
#AmericanSentence
I’d wear your bones as my bones,
your skin as my skin, take your life
to drape around my own shoulders.
It would be a prize to have your body.
I could be such a good version of you.
I would fill the void corners and cracks
in your small, dazzling world, the places
where you can’t touch, the many things
that are empty. I’d be there instead,
in the back of your mind, waiting, hungry.
I could be the reflection in your mirror.
Let me dig my hands into you, let me
uncurl my roots in your softest bruises.
If you let me flower in your skull I would
make honey from your misery, I would
take control. You wouldn’t have to chose
how to be bad. You wouldn’t need to
save face for the audience in your head.
There is only me watching. I’d suck the air
from every room if I had your lungs,
if I had your lungs I would breathe life
into all of your poems. I would make
your life into a poem. I would make
you into something somehow even more
beautiful. I would make you better than.
I would take your heart like a starving lion
takes a limping antelope, I’d savor it fully.
I would taste all of your aches and desires
and become them as your blood becomes
my water, as I digest your sick fantasies,
your dreams of being free to trust yourself.
You know you are not the best you could be.
I could be your greatest ideration, you wouldn’t
need to eat or drink or think or move or breathe.
I would live your perfect life for you instead.
I could make it a perfect life for you.
Everything you ever wanted glistens
in the reflection of my eyes, my smile
is that of your favorite dream. I could be
your everything. I am all that you know.
What else would love you like this, fully?
