Rabbit rabbit.
No, I did not know Ryan Gosling was in a band.
The bird on the iron post is a male house finch –
were you in Boston? Yes,
I’ll mail the sweater to you.
How did you get to
having too much iron?
I see a wooden ship
swinging from a tree branch.
I’ve never seen your yard in spring.
My first couple of tries are often
cruel but if I wait long enough,
I can hear my heart again.
Call me on your run, or after work, or
on your way to Star Market.
Warming rays crash
into my shoulders,
glistening through the many layers of my skin,
as the epidermis develops into a deeper tone.
Sweet tunes breeze around
the dense air above me
as the birds chirp along
to the ever-growing laundry list
of tasks I’m blissfully procrastinating
allowing my shell to blister.
Playing games
The living room corner
Becomes a comfort
Unknown during working hours
When phones ring
Notifications fire one after the other
And the fear of another emergency
Strangles and suffocates.
Their laughs
A salve for all wounds.
Sip the cool breeze
Zip up for cold air
Bouquets of greenery
Pelotons of cyclists
Prepped by daily gym workouts
Each hill climbed is easy peasy
The ride home sweeter
less cyclists, bright sunny skies
A cool breeze blows by my face
A smooth ride on newly paved roads
You’re not the only one
when you lie your pretty head down
and your thoughts, my name no longer lingers around
I’m still awake
The dawning realization of who I am
creeps in, as I cower like a small lamb
I worry about myself too.
He may have, but I
cannot. Telemachus consumes
my thoughts like Charybdis, mouth
open and swallowing
without discernment, and
though I am not ready to journey
for Ithaca, I gaze
through my window at the sea
and wonder how
he has grown, how
he has fought, how his daughters
imagine the world at war.
It doesn’t look like it’ll cook
in the silver, handleless pot
The broccoli cracks under the knife
into bite-sized florets,
a vegetation stiff with raw earth minerals
and the binding energy of the sun itself.
The recipe says to add it last
with fragrant ginger, sweet agave
and, of course, soy sauce of the gluten-free variety.
But the meat’s been cooking for a half hour
and there’s no way the broccoli
will be soft enough by dinner.
You add them to the pot anyway
and stir the best you can through
the unyielding cruciferous.
The heat starts breaking it down,
the sauce you made coats every part
and, like magic, it comes out al dente
just in time, firm but not chewy,
and hungry mouths devour
and call it the best dinner ever.
And the recipe goes back in its little box
that you got from your mother,
ready to help when you need it.
