There are clothes hanging on a clothes line
Someone’s dirty laundry now made clean
garments are worn thin
being scrubbed and wrung and squeezed
the life dripping back into the wash bin
Only to be poured out again
new water needed for the rinse
I walk among them
stainless and stiff
The washtub waits for me
a backwards baptism
I kneel before it
staring at my reflection
not fighting the hand that pushes against the back of my head
I wonder how clean I’ll get
Of the earth
On
Tomato slices
Watermelon
Sunday pizza crust
Open wounds
And frozen margarita glasses
In my tears
Midnight french fries
On bar napkins
Kentucky theater popcorn
Off your skin
In my mouth
Sweeter than molasses
Like a sandwich I am pinned
between God’s grace and forgiveness.
Inside the church another day
for a boost
a push
a nudge
a hug
a lift
a shove
a kiss
a raise
or a kick in the right direction.
The weekly pit stop for inspiration
to refill my tank
and to give my thanks.
When I was a child
I’d scream as ants ran
their way across the tile
of the bathroom floor
and made their way to my feet.
I’d cry as the bees bumbled
through our neighbors garden
and the cicadas crusted
their shells onto the trees
of the schoolyard where the boys
would chase us with them.
I’ve always hated insects.
As a teenager I’d freeze in fear
seeing the orb weaver who
made a home outside
the kitchen window.
I did not sleep for days
when a centipede crawled up
from the wall at the corner
of my bed. Now, somewhat adult,
I watch a creature with too many
legs try to make its way into
my room. I should say something
merciful, poetic. It is alive; it is creation;
it wants to be warm just as much
as I do. But I cannot believe it.
And now, with as much ease
as I can muster, I bring my foot
down on the carpet and softly
whisper, no.
Nowadays
tall trees mean wealth.
The trees havn’t been felled
for profit.
They’ve been allowed
to remain
to shelter and protect
select humans.
With luck
sometimes you’ll find them
even now
standing tall,
filtering sunlight,
bestowing blessings.
My yin room is dark and foreboding:
A depression den, so to speak, of forgotten
Boxes and belongings.
It is here I feel sad, embracing the existential dread
Of my being; the world is cruel and cold, and will not change.
It does not know how to hold the intensity of changing temperatures.
The hallway is a liminal state,
A transition between sleep and wakefulness.
My yang room is light and welcoming:
A sunshine suite, so to speak, of treasured
Windows and cushions.
It is here I feel joy, in love with the wonders of the world
And the people in it; my heart holds immense compassion.
I spread my lightness into the sky so the clouds may feel my warmth.
When I was young
all I wanted was to be seen.
To be noticed
and for someone to realize
I was there.
To see the beauty of my mind
and the kindness in my heart.
The dreams that kept me going
when my part of the world was dark.
I retreated to the comfort
of my dark bedroom
and hid away behind books.
I drifted away in the lyrics of songs.
Because someone, somewhere felt it too.
to
capsize, swept
across the
dark stone,
the
thick moss of
the
past, teetering
decades
overcast
with
the cold
country
of
over-
extending,
writing about that
white wall of
dying,
your life
unspooling—
a pulled thread from the tangle of
time,
a
heap of memories.
~ An erasure of Rebecca Solnit’s essays, The Faraway Nearby, pg. 143-4
