Slasher
All
of the tires
of all the cars
on the street,
he had to pick
mine.
I am become the burrow–root-crack
deepening under concrete, swallowing rain
like the shattered fiberglass tub we threw into the gulley
& Memaw’s chipped saucer, and the echo
from Sister’s barn-loft leap.
Let them think me drowned.
I am become the page. The blank
between words in a text thread—
that hum where meaning was. I let voice bleed
into the machine. No need
to answer. I am become answerless.
I am become the static
promises, pressed hands
to cold glass—until they leave.
A wrong number ringing in an empty room,
I am become the thing that feeds
on silence: the TV’s bluelight burned in the retina,
the blackberries left to ferment in the bucket.
Even the air has forgotten
my name.
I am become the not-wild,
not-tame—ghost
that ghosts itself—thing
that breathes through cracks
in the foundation, that drinks the dark
like water drinks the scrubby bank
of a canopied creek: slipping.
Running. I am become
the unobserved. Free
of every tender
& surveilling eye.
I did love you.
i dont regret it.
you’re a great guy.
But we just don’t fit.
its no one fault,
but I’m too scared.
because of the past,
I don’t see us in the future.
I spy a marvel of June— a fuzzy
young bumblebee on a bee balm’s
violet head in arabesque stance.
So round, yet she pliés up, spins
and swirls from tip to tip,
her yellow and black standing out
against dozens of purple blossoms
highlighted in June sun rays.
She dips-sips-leaps, dips-sips-leaps more,
before time to carry some
nourishment away— determined,
doing what needs to be done—
as we all do in this short life-dance.
Who’d you say your daddy was, again?
I ain’t said –
No, sirs, I ain’t.
Reckon y’all’d know his name before I ever would
On account of my having never heard it.
Well, you kin to so-and-so?
How am I meant to know who the hell I’m kin to?
Half the holler, quarter of the town;
Throw a stone, you hit a cousin.
Whole home is haunted by distant haints and neverweres.
Swear, that’s a Smith nose if I ever saw one.
I’ll search the post-church crowd for their breed,
Then search my mirror for evidence
Of their nose on my face
And their blood in my filthy veins.
Everwhat’d your Mama call you?
My name.
The name her own absent daddy gave her.
Best sin she’d ever committed –
A dead-ringer for my daddy.
Pandora
did not open
the box
without reason.
When
was curiosity a fatal attraction?
Day after day
she performed the same duties:
up at dawn—do the laundry,
sort the lentils.
All
she wanted
was to read
Edith Hamilton,
understand
her place in the world, t
the context
of her existence.
She had no interest
in weaving
and
unweaving
until her husband came home,
ready for supper.
She had no interest
in living
in the dark.
What she wanted
was to defy
instruction.
She didn’t care
about
blood
on the egg.
I was overjoyed to find her again
Resolved not to let her out of my sight
We had such hopes and dreams; but life happened
Moroccan tea, blue Palo Alto night
She looked up and examined me closely
Reflective expression settled on her
Quiet music fit our melancholy:
Chopin’s pensive Prelude in E Minor
When love calls; bittersweetness of it all
Such promise in our rekindled romance
Living conditions spun out of control
Out of sync no matter the circumstance
Things fell apart; sunny skies changed to grey
Tearing up;
turns quickly, she’s gone away
for Reeny, last seen in Amsterdam
Let’s meet in the aftershop
where nothing slips.
We can talk about grip and lids.
We’ll handle tools
that fit our hands.
You can tell me all about
how to seal things in and out —
sugar and rot —
and how to catch summer
in a glass throat.
And I’ll tell you everything
I don’t know
of friction,
and how things always slid
between my fingers
when they were wet.
“You should dry them, then,”
you’ll say.
I’ll retort:
“Make something that holds me
better when I don’t.”
And you’ll invent it
without a second thought.
And we’ll name that place ours —
where the threads match
and nothing jars.
In this land of freedom
and crispy red apples
daylight is flickering
between pitch-dark and dappled
For FEMA’s defunding
the yacht-loungers grin and clap
they jigger fat balance sheets
while Congress chips at SNAP
ICE storms all June this year—
isn’t this weather crazy?
Round strawberries left to rot
(they say immigrants are lazy)
I’m driven to pen rhyme
by a shortage of free reason
in this star-spangled land
where an op-ed’s labeled treason
Across orange fields of misery
let’s sow some seeds of hope
may humanity grow taller
and crowd out misanthropes.
Hard are the days,
When cicadas are chirping.
Singing their melodies,
In bushes they lay lurking.
And the sun she’s matching
Lucky hearts like ours.
Hearts with their love,
Like fire catching.
I pray for my sheets,
Like some kind of hymn.
And know that they’re better
When you’re within them.
