We have an 1800’s type of love.
Held breaths, brushed fingers,
accidental skin-on-skin contact,
hinting that there might be more.
The only difference is
behind closed doors, they
would take off their clothes and
ravish each other, while my wife
and I brush our fingers and
hold our breaths.
As dragonflies of blue, green and orange
Skip and flit aimlessly across the pond,
She sees her blotchy faced reflection rippling
Into a grotesque monstrous picture of self.
All her days have been spent here.
Picking wildflowers in the meadow;
Napping under the two hundred year old live oak,
With the Spanish moss providing shade
During the hottest and most humid southern months.
Fishing in this very pond.
She never imagined leaving.
Picnicking in the peach grove in July
Had been her favorite pastime,
The sweet smell of the flawless fruit
Drooping from their branches.
Would she ever be back here in July?
Like raindrops hanging loosely onto their cloud
Just before the burst of energy that propels them
to the ground.
The peaches have been the perfect genteel hostesses
Her entire life.
It is unfathomable that she does not get to choose.
Although she has known from a young age
Who here betrothed would be,
Today seemed like a distant time in space
That would never actually come.
Her mother had not prepared her for the reality of eighteen.
She senses eyes at her back
So she turns toward the house,
There on the marble balcony stand
Her mother, her father, and her future.
They wave and smile. How stupid they are.
She walks toward the peach grove
Spends precious minutes searching for the
Perfect
Fruit.
Spying it high in the smallest peach tree,
She plucks the least ripe one from a branch
Bites into it
Waves back.
She feels a sense of freedom that was new to her.
Steps onto the log
She placed here yesterday.
Pulls the hidden noose from behind the tree
And slips it around her neck.
The stupid trio’s smiles disapate.
As they watch with horror on their faces,
She waves and smiles once more,
Then jumps.
She will remain here in the peach grove.
Picnicking her way through eternity.
She would rather be here eating
The
Least
Ripe
Peach.
This is her choice.
I’ve been kneading loaves
since I heard the news, hoping
the day’s baking can
distill the chill from my blood—
I see shelves brimming with bread
twist of tongue turned twist of wrists
befalls twists in sheets (all night)
your words aglow on pages (printed) beneath the waning gibbous light
shining through an open window kept ajar for those verses
to feather-fall among the cricket’s song
–in concert with yours–
on repeat, a treasured refrain
preventing sleep, forbidding cenote pools to settle
bare feet tiptoe along creeking floorboards
invisible imprints raise hushed echoes down the hall
deft fingers pry open a back door left unlocked in a summer daze
a calloused hand sweeps wayward wavy hair from pursed lips
then returns to encircle knees pressed to chest
while seated in a large wicker chair
silently pleading with the gods to extend June’s presence
no response (yet)
tired eyes lift from pages curling at the edges in the soft wind
to survey shadows creeping closer while the stars sail through the sky;
evening creatures’ yips and cries bleed melancholy symphonies
into aching hearts buried deep in the darkness
eyes close to conjur spirits traveling along throaty-lupine-growls
between legs
between breaths
between dusk and dawn
summoning them to collect smoke-scratched whispers over bourbon
to quench this thirst for falling in love
with the idea of a magnetic refrain
my mind paints life-scapes,
decades– rolling blue-green hills
settle-ing to now
contemplating the white space
what is yet to be composed
A quiet man in plain clothes,
With a plain-looking old camera
Chooses a spot at the top
Of an outdoor Parisian stairway
That looks like a spiraling nautilus,
And waits.
He waits until the light Is just right
And waits a bit more
Not knowing for what.
People walk by
On the cobblestones.
He is unnoticed –
A sniper above them
Watching their moves
And doing nothing.
Until a man on a bicycle
Comes racing by.
Did he anticipate this,
Or is it all serendipity?
He fires the shutter
At just the exact moment,
Not a second too early,
Not a second too late,
But at the exact moment
When the bicycle
Is between the handrail,
The curb,
And the wall.
The man on the stairs walks away
With a black and white masterpiece
Pulled right out of the air
That no one else ever guessed
Was there.
Under several trees’ shadow
a small herd of cattle lay
chewing cud, lazing.
Bloviator baffled
Gish Galloped
Codswallop conned
America, America
What has become of thee
Are you too busy watching tiktok to see
Who among you will say
I never saw it coming
When immigrants are marched into camps
(concentrated as it were)
When women are handmaidens (Atwood warned you)
When Christianity is the law of the land (Octavia tried to tell us)
Will you blindly recite Martin Niemoller’s poem
In your meaningless, performative allyship
Or will you get honest and say, like Rhett Butler
Frankly, my dear I don’t give a damn
Because underneath you don’t
because it won’t affect you
When I lose my rights as a woman, a Jew, a lesbian
Will you tsk, tsk, and say golly, I am so shocked
Because it won’t affect you
When it is your turn to stand up Will you?
In the changing room I strip & slip into a hospital gown & scratchy blue shorts. Some clothes contain metal fibers, the sign says. These can heat up during an MRI & burn your skin. The lab tech, Cody, plunges a needle in my arm & clamps down tight. Had to squeeze it off quick, quite a water hose you’ve got there! The noise in the chamber is gonna be loud, he warns, but he’ll pipe in some music. What would I like to hear? I say jazz singers from the Fifties, Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Sarah Vaughan. He says I got you.
he’s got the whole world
in his hands oh don’t let me
embarrass myself
I’m lying on a slab inside what looks like a high-tech coffin. Cody secures my head in some kind of vise—Gotta be very still—and lowers a hockey-mask thingy like Hannibal Lecter’s an inch from my face. The coffin sucks me in headfirst & the racket starts, clanking, banging, hammering, loud enough to give me an instant migraine. They’re looking for a tumor on my auditory nerve that could be causing my hearing loss & if I’m not stone deaf now, I will be when this is over. In the background, though, Sarah’s crooning Gershwin: Looking everywhere, haven’t found him yet / he’s the big affair I cannot forget / only man I ever think of with regret…
there are several men
I think of with regret all
I have is regret
This damn vise is crushing my skull like a rotten pumpkin. If there’s a tumor it’s probably benign, probably won’t kill me, but this noise might. Clanking, banging, hammering—I wish I were deaf right now—& just then Ella & Louis dance in, having loads of fun. Potato! Potahto! Tomato! Tomahto! Let’s call the whole thing off! Cody comes & pulls me out, shoots me full of dye through my IV, then pushes me back in for another five minutes. Then dead silence—am I deaf already? Then I hear myself asking him about the dye. It’s for contrast, to see if you have any abnormalities.
A tomato on
white bread plenty of mayo
yes that’s the ticket
