I wear black and some gray when I’m with her
Stay intact with my act, stay invisible
But as soon as she’s gone, it’s green green, green and some brown
Off on my own it’s joy, joy, joy, not a frown
All the derogatory things she can say to me
Are derived from her song of self loathing
I hold my peace, I’m inclined to forgive and forget
And I do my best to help her hold hers
Two raised beds, one with cherry tomatoes
and peppers, the other gone wild, abounding
with weeds, a failed organic compost
of wood shavings, food scraps, coffee grounds.
In the plastic faux whiskey barrel halves
a crowd of pungent mint, the other has
a strawberry struggling to adapt.
Nosy dogs, dandelion fur, causes
for my concern, leaves wilt, soil dries, stems bend,
not a question of will squirrels come for
the ripening fruit, take single bites, but when.
The earth spins on and on, hour after hour.
There’s so much to worry about each day
when in the end one has so little say.
We are in Grandmother, Stella Tilson’s, kitchen in the west Texas rent house.
All the adults are squeezed around the oval table.
Everyone is dressed up.
Stella, wearing an apron, with hands on her hips
is leaning against the sink.
She is proud of the meal she has prepared.
Fried chicken
mashed potatoes
green beans
cantaloupe
sweet iced tea.
Granddaddy adds more sugar.
Mother is sitting next to aunt Barbara.
They both have wavy, luxurious hair
& are wearing dark lipstick & earrings.
Mother’s posture suggests she is reaching towards someone.
Because I remember this house,
I know that she is sitting near the doorway
to a room where a card table is set up for six grandchildren.
This pose is a nurturing gesture.
There is tenderness in the way she holds her arms.
This is a portrait of my mother.
This is what she did, solely, and to the best of her ability.
—for Tree C.
I’ll always have this place for you,
and the hum of air conditioning,
and a dog at a distance
barking–
Jennifer Jupiter paw deep,
pushing, yielding poop mountains
aside to get out from under fence—
that’s funny to me.
One can’t help but hate that dog—
she’s wondrous irksome,
her chocolate gaze
under Chewbacca frizz
with one, fuzzy dropping eye,
and two lascivious lips.
People called me speechless-dumb
much earlier on in life.
I was indeed insecure,
insular,
surrounded
by my whole crowd of family.
I could rely on them.
Come with me,
forward many years later,
and quick a felt, bristling crazy
I became to each of them—
something in the way.
No. All I want is safe—
money came from Friendly’s,
a waitressing job
put toward my bargain trial medication,
You’ll be public speaking in no time!
and all my loved ones died.
All the safe ones.
All the harbors in the corners of
my childhood home—a squared circle—
and I stepped outside the door.
I have felt so alone since Mom died.
It is survival.
This is only survival.
Dry spells ~ are not dry
it’s just the soil taking a rest from the rest
after being repeatedly tilled
Dry spells ~ are time to flourish
allowed to fallow
not wallow in what isn’t
Dry spells ~ are being
as it is to be
not budding into expectations
Dry spells ~ are nature’s dance
a way to enhance
breath into song
Dry spells ~ are not spells
more like quells
soothing roots
Dry spells ~ are quite moist
in the rest from the rest
new growth is flourishing
They must have been startled
