Beneath a crackled yellow sky, an olive grove sits
Trees with twisted limbs
and a billowing green, black, and umber canopy
spill shade on a red earth
One could disappear in their layered shadows
be annointed in those holy oils
that stroke an empty yellow sky
encircle a bold yellow sun
reveal a blue mountain sitting
in quiet contemplation
beyond the eyes of God.
when the garden
continually yields
not a thing
otherwise known as
nothing
it’s most likely time
either to plant another crop
or discontinue gardening altogether
the later of which seems extreme
therefore, I slowly deliberate
contemplate and elaborate
seeking how to bloom
when planted
elsewhere
Are the jagged red grooves etched
across my skin, only there because I
rake my fingernails along my
abdomen while I lie in bed at night,
trying to claw my way out of the body
I inherited?
Were these arms passed down to me
through generations of women who
came before, starving and contorting
themselves to avoid judgmental glares
which bore into their bones until their
marrow was gifted to me?
Was I pressed, bleeding into a world,
from a body like mine, so I could
tear out my hair and dig at my pores
until my tissue collects to form a
crescent moon I’ll never be rid of?
When did I begin to hate my sisters,
since hating myself is nearly the same;
if she shares my body, my flaws,
must I loathe her with the same vigor?
Where can we flee to a place where
our flesh will be safe from those who
wish to harm or humiliate, where
the masses will love our brokenness?
Who can be trusted to claim us, and in
hatred does not mention the elephant in this
room whose name sounds like mine?
Will I strive daily until I am small enough
to fit into the silhouette made just for me?
Why do I resolve to disappear?
Just as Eskimos
have many words for snow,
there are many types of Love
we can’t name, but know.
The Greeks had a start:
Philia for trusting
Eros for lusting
Ludus for playing
Agape, staying
But what do we call love
…of terror-filled rides
…that hangs on for pride
…that stays for the kid
…that stings from what’s hid
…replacing relief
…resolving deep grief
…inflamed from deep shame
…that seeks its own name
…of fresh grassy dew
…that wants you, just you?
Every snowflake falls
once, unique—
Every moment sprawls
beyond words we can
speak.
I say sorry
It rolls off my tongue
I say it more than my name
It sits behind my teeth
Ready to soothe
Aloe to the burn I didn’t inflict
Apologies are comfortable
They fit well in my mouth
My lips curling around the syllabus
I spew sorry
Water from a fire hydrant
To extinguish discomfort
To make you feel better
Because the root of the problem
Is that I
Am the flaw
What is it about
dryer balls Thud thud Thud thud
that calms my FRaZzle ?
Dog brings cicada
In the house, chirping loudly
Deposits on floor
Cicada Tom Cruise
Here to rescue the other
Stuck in my chimney
time aligns with
trembling spiderwebs
we tango over
tombstones carved
in the rocks of stars
When my children were very young
I would bribe them with
hugs and kisses.
They would come running for
their reward, smiling and happy.
They soon wised up and we move on
to treats and privileges.
My father’s reward was a choice between a
Cutglass Flyswatter or a
Furlined Bathtub.
I had to pick.
Sometimes I picked the flyswatter,
other times, the tub.
I believed that if I complied
they would, someday, materialize.
I visualized a Cutglass Flyswatter
doing it’s intended job-
shattering into a shiny pile
of broken crystal and flies.
(Why would someone give this
to a child!)
I imagined what it would feel like
to slide into a pelt lined bathtub,
the fur tickling my butt.
A little weriod, but more practical
and less dangerous than the flyswatter.
I worried about the damp fur after
the tub was drained-
which would smelled like wet dog-
and be a breeding ground for
bacteria and mold.
I eventually realized
these prizes were a trick, a joke
but, I still complied-
aimed to please.
My only reward, my parent’s
affection-
Hugs and kisses.
Of course you want to stay
all cozy in the green hills of the shire
but sometimes you must lace up
your hiking boots & and go back
to the stinking swamps of Mordor.
There’s something in your pocket,
some wee but weighty thing
unspeakably shining in the dark,
that you can unpack & drop off
only in the place it was made.
Even then you can barely
let go of it, & in throwing it away
you all but throw yourself away,
so much a part of you it’s become,
& even then you’ll feel it there,
in your pocket still.
