Today was the first time.
It’s splendor damaged
by strong wind and rain,
the old sugar maple’s
upper branches bent and then
broke and fell into the lower.
A tangled cluster of jenga
limbs and leaves.
Today was the first time
of the year to ascend
another living thing.
There is always a first
time, the tree looks much
lighter now, and breezy
from my feet-on-ground
vantage, viewpoint in the yard.
Tomorrow will be the first time
this year that I sharpen the saw.
A plate overturned on the floor next to a spilled pepper grinder.
Orange juice across the table top
Soaked into yesterday’s junk mail.
The chair is off kilter from the table.
What is left of breakfast
In greasy crumbs scattered underneath the table and chair.
Cold scrambled eggs.
Soggy limp toast.
A knife encased in a bed of grape jelly and butter
Squelches underfoot.
Sadie wags her tail meekly and lowers her head in a show of submission.
I scratch behind her ears.
At least someone liked the eggs.
I wish I could cut out my heart
Someone help me do it, please
It gives me so much grief
I have to pick up the pieces every time it breaks and put it back together
Wandering aimlessly, pulling the rest of me along with it
I feel as though it weighs me down
Nails chewed to the quick over what other people want for me
Body shaking, trying to hold it all in
Eyes welling in fear of messing everything up
I just think I would be easier to go without
I know your heart is what makes you human
But mine is overgrown, vines wrapped around my neck
A boisterous behemoth of feelings that turns a blind eye to all logic
My heart makes me a fool – makes a fool of me
So let me be done with it
Get gamed on, played, recruited
justified by spooning bias lovingly
fed by unworked hands waving bands
above your noses. We’re all stupid
reacting to text boldened on cybernetic
broadsides. They’re hazy generations
algorithmically processed as intelligence
as if we’re all in on the same secrets
but fortunes are the only ones telling.
writing feels like coming home
like a piece of my heart was missing
yet is finally back into place
where have you been?
writing asks
away & homesick
i reply
writing has no judgment
or resentment
just a welcoming hug
that cracks my back
writing tastes like
lemon icebox pie
on my birthday
writing smells like
dew in the morning
on the trees that surround me
writing sounds like
cicadas screaming in early summer
waiting & waiting
writing feels like coming home
a thick layer of dust coated
my pen this morning.
my mind aches and cramps
as I foolishly attempt
to etch these words despite the dust
—which makes the pen terribly challenging
to grip. it’s been a few years
since I scribbled in this journal,
so good morning old friend(s) and hello
new ones. please be forgiving
as I scrub off the rust. I am so grateful
to be back at this desk bringing forth
a suitcase worth of moments
I’ve been collecting these past few years
itching to paint their pictures.
for Yehuda with apologies
Salaam
Adunis
I see you from across
the river
the living breathing
poem in Paris
safe from Syria
where poems were
tortured and hanged
the meter draining
from their stanzas
You are safe
Adunis
as I once was
fighting while writing
for Jerusalem
“where wild stones
bay at tame
walls”*
You are still there
Adunis
while I sit across
the river
my unwritten words
chained to my legs
And I say to you
Adunis
the you still free
even at 93
to see
to say
what you need
to release yourself
from Paris
in peace
Until then…
Say it all
Adunis
Say how dictators
of sand
betray every grain
beneath their
Oxford-shod feet
Say how rabbis and imams
and priests
bleed cities
of freshly loved prayers
How they hold sway
over days
over bread
over heads
over vaginas hiding
but biding
their time in the dark
Say it to Gaza
To Rafah
To Shebaa
To the Knesset
To Damascus
To Tehran
Say if for Kyiv
to Moscow
then hide
from the drones and missiles
Say it to Florida
to Texas
to Georgia
to parents of censored children
for convicts strapped in death chambers
needles fucking their arms
Say it to New York
which you “shaped like a pear
or a breast”**
to LA to Chicago
to London
anywhere
with a park or a square
Say it all
Adunis
Though your hand and mind and soul
may tire
Paint every breath with passion
punctuation
premonition
Say it for me
Adunis
from an old and dying poet
for an old and dead poet
Say it for me
Adunis
Say it as a favor
Say it for you
Say it for me
Just say it
*taken from “Mayor of Jerusalem”
by Yehuda Amichai
**taken from “A Grave for New York”
by Adunis
Her directives may have come
I love staying up late.
A quiet time to create secrets.
Looking out into the dark of night,
a street lamp lights my room.
It lets me think and prepare for the next day.
Would I notice it was night if I didn’t have a window?
It’s funny honestly,
just like how quitting an addiction is more celebrated than never falling into one,
we naturally see the dark in the light or the light in the dark.
A white cloud blows, outlining the darkness.
I wish people would see the light in the darkness,
instead of the darkness in the light.
But I guess it can be hard to control if the lights in your room are on or off when you wake up.
You just look for something other than what’s all around you;
something different.
Or it becomes a loophole.
trying to find what’s around you inside what’s different.
you find dark in light in dark in light in dark;
or you find light in dark in light in dark in light.
To break the loophole, you must see the grey.
It will keep you from going insane.
