Posts for June 17, 2025

To the right hand’s palm curled around a wisp, 
Something so gentle as a willow’s switch.

To veins intertwined in flesh,
    Taking life into leather skin, 
        And the beloved lungs that lift the chest,

Gaze kindly, noli timer—
 May we all be pulled,
   Gently,
        From muddied waters, 
            Clay keeping us tender; kindred—
How could I meet a more masochistic muse?
Left to sterile stares, and the case’s cold desolation—
    Without meaning or mercy.
Humanity,
    Tell me the being persisted when the was body sunk.

If I could only take the hand,
    Unearthed now,
And feel the innocent touch of what I will become.   

Our journey took us in and out of the canopy of trees
as we moved to avoid the rain that moved against us,
our only relief against the breadth of summer air there.
While the coverage disappointed us,
the drops that fell were themselves quite kind,
a reminder of beneficence more than importance, 
even if everything they do reminds us to slow down.
People eat, read, and sleep beneath their boughs
without asking permission or seeking guidance,
yet trees never mind our wanderings. 
These drops point out our limitations 
so that we need not depend on the kindness of others
to receive these faults without damage. 
Trees realize that we are more like them than not,
still growing, still reaching,
needing those drops escaping through the canopy
and escaping through the dry spells of our lives.

Penelope’s mother tries to be magnanimous
by taking us both to El Charro.
I’ve always thought when a restaurant
claims to be authenic, it can’t.

That P is my great granddaughter
is a fact she knows but hides 
like a dirty secret.

P is radiant with trouble.
She (and everyone else it seems)
got notice that her graduate program
has been suspended and her Indian husband

may have his green card revoked.
The great purge has started
but Penelope is aglow,
ebullient might be the word.

Suddenly I know something
that simply evades P’s mom.
(Can you guess what it is?)
Now she’s on her feet
calling for the mariachi band
clapping her hands
and dancing me across the floor

Life has a way 
To bring the best 
Or The worst 
Out of people
None of which 
Eases the weight
Of the world 
Beneath the loss
Of a forgotten dream

I like to kick it
like a Tribe Called Quest,
please don’t roll me the bucket,
this is not a test.

Like a Tribe Called Quest
I take abstract verse and dunk it.
This is not a test
so I would’t flunk it.

I take abstract verse and dunk it
in a pop fly quiz contest,
so I wouldn’t flunk it.
I play hardcourt and diamond pest.

In a pop fly quiz contest,
flashing golden gloves like Kirby Puckett,
I play hardcourt and diamond pest.
In the Appalachian League we shuck it,

flashing golden gloves like Kirby Puckett.
Sail on Silver Slugger, with zest,
in the Appalachian League we shuck it.
No jive. The basepaths of rhythm flow blessed.

Sail on, Silver Slugger. With zest
please don’t roll me the bucket,
no jive–the basepaths of rhythm flow blessed–
I like to kick it.

I press my palms to the glass of night,

watching the silhouette of what I want—

a flame that flickers just beyond

the reach of reason,

but I do not move.

Your name is a storm I mouth in silence,

each syllable a thread

pulled tight across my ribs.

I feel you—

not in touch,

but in the ache of absence

that blooms like bruises under skin.

The moon is complicit,

spilling light across my restraint

as if to say, go.

But I stay.

Still.

Stillness is its own kind of fever.

I’ve taught my body

the grammar of denial,

each breath a sentence I do not finish.

There is art in holding back—

in standing at the edge of a kiss

and tasting only the idea of salt.

Longing is a slow fire—

it doesn’t consume,

only warms the cage

where my wildest yes

paces.

But oh—

in the cathedral of my thoughts,

you burn like stained glass:

beautiful, untouchable,

casting colors on the floor of what I cannot have.

a cross 
for a body 

waning crescents 
for arms 

cigarettes 
for lips 

smoke rings 
for hair 

a rainbow 
below the waist

shadows 
under clouds 

for eyes 
that look to the distance 

between us 
at god

knows what

marigold petals creating paths for the dead
cempasúchil

Aunt Maggie’s beautiful sagging satin skin
the key to good fudge is the cast iron pan and lots of butter

letting soft sand sift through my loose fingers 
the sea renders all hard things to silt

on slow mornings when my lover peeks her eyes open
a hand that is searching for a hand can stop looking

summer evening rain relinquishing cool drops onto my face 
back porch kale leaves curtsy and dance

Storm clouds gather 
Dark and low and menacing
Portending harsh weather soon
A silent mist of rain
Litters the windshield 
Tense knuckles
Grip the steering wheel tight
Following the curvy hills
Southeast to home
A sudden plunk on the glass
By a chunky water droplet
From an overgrown limb
Cracks the tension
Of the current mission
A sliver of sunlight
Pierces the angry sky 
Grip loosens
Almost home