Posts for June 27, 2024 (page 6)

Dream I’m at the mall, say, “I love you,” ten times or more.
          I like pretending more when I’m not the only one doing it.
                   Think about calling you up and breathing down the line. 
                                  Think about sitting  in front of your house all night. 
    
Say, “I’m at the mall,” dream I love you ten times or more. 
        Do you think about it too? Always chewing on my brainstem. 
                   I won’t tell anyone. This time, I promise, I won’t tell anyone.  
                                Put your hand on the back of my neck and squeeze. Hard. 

Dream I’m you, at the mall, ten times. “I love more.” Say it. Say it.
             It’s mostly a teeth-clenched affair. Tongue bitten red and raw. 
                       My mouth has always been a pool of blood. You should know.
                                You used to drink from it. Do you remember how it tastes?
    
I love the mall. Dream you ten times. Ten times. Say “more.” 
             The other shoe drops right on top of my head, every time.
                         Check my email like it’s going to bring something back- 
                                   Curl up in a bed that isn’t mine, click all the lights off. 
    

Small wild parchments

yellow petals

in symmetry

unfold with grace

before I arrive

by morning

where I can see them

sitting atop

tall spiked stems

swaying as the wind

blows clear

through their space

without harm to these

yellow brights

But it is the Sun

their greatest rival

that beats so hard

dropping red hot irons

from the sky

the afternoon

inside an oven

one petal falls

at a time

I see you let go

and release

what is beautiful

to the end

And in only one day

for that is

all there is

you teach me

to release

like petals

what is lost

and to let words go

as one must

in poetry

knowing

there will be more

Staring at the mirror
My mind plays tricks
Looking out at me
Not the me I recognize
I see an old woman
Something about her familiar
Her eyes
The light of wonder still there
Her smile
Slightly crooked but strong
Her Face
Shows signs of a life well-lived
A life blessed by God
I’m grateful for
I remember
It’s Me

A weight unseen, a hand on your throat,

Squeezing the air from your voice, your dreams.

Words like iron bars, confining your spirit,

Dictating your path, leaving you unseen. 

History whispers, a chorus of silenced cries,

Of freedoms denied, of lives deemed less. 

The color of skin, the curve of a hip, 

A reason to ostracize, to oppress. 

Laws etched in stone, pronouncements from on high,

Denying your right to love, to exist, to be. 

Forced confirmity, a suffocating mold,

Shattering individuality, ruthlessly.

But defiance flickers, a spark in the dark,

A quiet rebellion, a yearning to break free. 

Voices rise in unison, a chorus bold and strong, 

Demanding justice, equity for all to see. 

The weight may be heavy, the path may be long, 

But hope remains, a fire that burns bright. 

For in the struggle for freedom, a power resides, 

To dismantle the cages, and claim back the light.

Mom bought a new bottle at the drugstore,
So we sat down, uncomfy carpet beneath us, hunching over the rounded coffee table
Movie picking was the most troublesome until we decided on a trash romcom rewatch
Or are forced to watch one of Dad’s games on ESPN,
Ranging from Fulham Soccer to UNC basketball

Then I grab her calloused hands and coat them messily with a clear base,
Making sure not to get any in the open wounds from her hangnails
And apologizing profusely when I did

My wrist always hurts from shaking the polish
And the side of my fingers always ache after opening it,
But then I take my cursed hand, and I apply the color onto her short but wide nails
My hands shake terribly, but Mom says it’s fine, I’m not a professional nail tech, but my only client loves my scribiley and uneven job,
I’m not sure why

There once was a crow mobbed by a sparrow
Whose size chilled me down to the marrow
Even gothic creatures feel hot
So he found a cooling spot
But he only wet his feet for the dish was too narrow

Two hundred and six bones in the body;
all I need is one.

Digging into myself like I’m robbing a grave
because everybody likes to say
I don’t have a bad bone in me.
But of two hundred and six bones in the body,
surely there is at least one.

Can I find the same effectiveness
that Samson did with a jawbone?
What about a femur-long and strong-
converted into a club?
How about a rib
that pierces a lung when snapped?

No, of two hundred and six bones of the body,
none of these are the one.

How about the hammer, ankle, stirrup,
bones of the ear collecting truths I need to hear?
The ulna, the radius, the phalanges 
bearing the therapeutic tools I emot with?
A vertebra of the spine, the courage
invoked in moments of defending my boundaries?

Still no.
Of two hundred and six bones of the body,
these help, but they aren’t the one.

That leaves me with the hyoid,
the floating bone, held in place
only with muscles and ligaments,
aiding in swallowing and movements
of the tongue, including speech,
the words I could say, the falsity of
sticks and stones may break my bones
but words can never hurt me,
no, careless words can destroy,
can be deadly if used 
for intentional evils
and nobody, no one
is immune to the potential
of falling into these treacheries,
even me, every so often losing control and
how I really want to lose that control again.

So yes
out of the two hundred and six bones of the body,
I do have one bad bone.
It’s just all the rest of me
that keeps it in check.

The swish and swirl and gurgle
of a flushing girl’s school toliet
she remembers—–
the sludge heaped high
In front 
Of heavy mop
Swirling around in cold urine
Like a latrine of a third world county—
Six year old pushed, shoveled, dumped, cleaned
Gagged–
ALL for a black-lettered-on-red FREE lunch ticket– USA-1953.

Sunsets and Cenotes

Fire was in the air, tonight,
but not the kind that burns.

Orange, a touch of pink,
gold kissing the edges
of clouds, slow drifting,

a man taking photos
on his phone, apparently
founder of a Facebook group
for sunsets in Franklin County.

I wasn’t holding his or any motive
as I stood looking at the sky—
aside from

wondering
what it looked like—
what it felt like—

where you are.            

            ***

I imagine you
on a deck, gazing up,
thinking, dreaming,

watching
the sky
as it toasts
the clouds.

There is water
and earth–there
in those eyes.

Inside of—
all over—
my mind:
Cenote Gold.

And I wonder
how the Mayans believed
anything but heaven
hid behind

those
pools.

               *** 

Xibalba looms
and ancient
myths and evils

give no quarry
to what ends
no hope
of the other side

but I take
tentative peace
where I am—
where I stand—

trusting the elements,
drifting in sunsets

that promise of
the dawn.  

***   ***  ***
 

Declarations
                       
                – memories in Lisbon, 2013

I am not in love with you
            but the idea of you—
the possibilities reared in your voice— 
           shimmer, like light
                        and water,

your eyes,
            like cenotes, lost
            & filled with molten
                        muddied gold.

I am not in love with you,
            
           but it would be so easy
 
                                             to fall.  

            ***  ***  ***

Un-Turning the Page

             — italicized phrases from Cyril Wong’s “Literature”

 
I’ve been googling
                                  (what the good guy
                                             calls stalking)

and I like
when you said, “it’s a marathon,
not a sprint”

predictive hint, not just
because of this (I knew that you ran), but
hearing you speak (outside of this)
was like seeing you (beyond this)
standing close enough to know
the scent before the rain.

                                          You say,
we can be
immortal, but you feel
so far away.  And it’s so hard to say
three more days is not
enough.

                You nod.  And I’m watching
the page of your face
as it’s turning; and underneath, another page
rising, til the silence itself is deafening,
and I am that
                         darker realization:

June’s thirty is caesura
to this we’ve been
doing.

             Cenote Gold is too distracting,
so I look past you, now, to those saplings,
behind and to the side, feet in snow,
roots stretching, enwrapping
something akin to
growth.

                         And I wonder what
your voice sounds like.  I wonder
if it’s breaking.  I wonder
what you’re writing

in the eleven months
before we meet

again.

Ask yourself what’s over