Higher Powers
moving towers
maneuver in mud
a chorus of cranes
I’ve noticed this
about goats: their
surefootedness—
it’s all a trompe-l’oeil.
When they land
precarious, they
simply spring
with dog-leg grace
to a new perch
(over and over).
Try it the next time
you cross a creek
or you think a fall
will be your last.
When ghosts from the past
visit dreams,
they take
such
ordinary
shapes of such
insignificant import.
The board member
now sitting
on a rain flower
and
the partner
now winter rain.
It floods
without being wet
and there’s no need
to let reality
impinge upon
our next step.
Some say
ghosts appear
because they have unfinished
business or are
communicating something
of great import.
I believe the residents
in my brain simply may
be rearranging so they
can put the car back
in the garage at night.
The crowd pours into whatever-it-is.
I spot my date,
one of many high school friendlies.
Her face is all made up, too much to touch.
She hooks her arm in mine.
We join the parade.
She tells me how this changes things.
Now there’s not any game that we can’t play.
As we cross the parking lot to whatever-it-is
I spot the passing shadow of my mechanic.
I recall I left my car in the shop to be fixed.
I pat the bottle of medicine in my suit pocket.
Excuse me, I tell the corsage on my arm.
I’ll only be a moment.
I need to briefly attend to my nervous breakdown.
(I think my car needs a bottle of yellow medicine).
I can’t remember my mechanic’s name –
Terry? Arn? Irv? Velbur?
If I don’t remember his name, he might not see me.
(I know the old one gave me the yellow medicine).
The young one with a tight black beard
stops me with his hand on my chest:
I fear your car is burning oil – let’s check.
We arrive, The old one’s already behind the wheel.
The young one drops to his knees and sings
how his sick mother slowly died and now
his strength is gone, and he has no reason to live.
Motion stops, my senses reverse into me.
The conclusion is parked. They’ve left the keys:
Mechanics are very invested in fixing my car.
It’s the only reason I’ve been able to drive this far.
The morning drive
along a solitary road
kicks up dust
that streams between sunlight
and splits two fields,
one where a horse appears
out of somewhere
in the middle of nowhere
that feels like somewhere (else)
this creature
of strength
of force
of warning
signals that it is not alone
and that three more will appear
seemingly out of nowhere;
are we too late?
too busy admirning faded beauty
in our somewhere
that will be pummeled
and become a lost path
buried beneath layers of settled dust–
with cadavers further contaminating fallow fields
in the middle of a forgotten morning drive
to nowhere
Clothes are scattered down the hall,
like a dressing room on Black Friday
in 2016.
My bag remains unzipped
and my packing list lingers with gaping holes.
Fresh toiletries double bagged
with fear of explosions mid air
causing the destruction of my extra
5 outfits simply
because I was too indecisive
to remove any one of the identical
tank tops
for our 2 day excursion.
A ridiculous number of alarms
are toggled on—
I lay watching the clock
continue to grow in number
refreshing the constant stream
of items in my mind,
anxious I’ll forget to shove
them in the bulging baggage
in just a few short hours.
We didn’t know that kind of joy was a fleeting thing— a warm November mirage before the frost took hold was that Thanksgiving.
Barbed wire split our world in two—home behind, adventure ahead. We ducked beneath with no permission, just our will to stray that Thanksgiving.
You stepped in muck, I nearly choked, alfalfa in your laces, And flung the stink like holy water, baptizing play that Thanksgiving.
The creek wore pyrite jewelry, ice glinting beneath its murmur— God whispered through the freezing stream, “Children, stay,” that Thanksgiving.
A turtle, cracked and bleeding, lay where frost drew lace. We honored broken things, gave them soft clay that Thanksgiving.
Manure and moss clung to our hair, perfume of saints in pasture. No Chanel could match the musk of child’s ballet that Thanksgiving.
They made us dine on patio chairs, our sins too bold for linen— but peas and stuffing never sang so fey that Thanksgiving.
The wagon door, the final glance—no words were fit to cradle the look we shared, that long goodbye bouquet that Thanksgiving.
Cousin, the past returns in scent, in mud, in glance, in silence— and no feast has matched the wild array that Thanksgiving.
I knew him, years ago.
He asked me out once.
I turned him down.
Too old and not my type.
A few years later, he bought a house
in the neighborhood.
Never lived there. Rented it out.
When he died, his widow sold it.
Today I got a letter
addressed to him at my address.
PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
OPEN BY ADDRESSEE ONLY
So I opened it.
(What’s he going to do?
He’s dead.)
It was and investment company
with a low ball offer to buy my house.
Probably sometime, someone
mixed up our addresses.
Or maybe it was from an
alternative reality
where I didn’t turn him down.
