Tell me a secret,
southern road. Daybreak beckons
like a quaking bog.
Like a quaking bog
daybreak beckons, southern road.
Tell me a secret.
*from a prompt today using paint sample color swatches. Thanks Melissa Helton for the inspiration.
Watching the sunset and I can’t help but wonder if
you’re also watching it. I’m sure it looks a lot different
from your side of town. There’s probably fewer buildings
blocking your view and the light pollution isn’t as bad
as it is here. I’m watching the sunset and I can’t help
but wonder if you’re also thinking about the subtle
yet rapid changes in the clouds across the sky from
orange to pink to purple. It must be prettier where you
are with the green pine trees complementing the
contrasts of the setting sun. I’m watching the sunset and
I can’t help but wonder if you’re also thinking about
me. As the night begins, I can’t help but wish that
I could reach through the stars to you and ask you
if you are feeling the same way I am feeling.
The sun falling to the west
The sky is blushing,
Going too fast on the curves
The music pounding through the doors
The wind roaring through every window
I know you back and forth
You take me everywhere important
Listen when I scream
Catch my tears when I cry
Keep my friends safe
I can always count on you
these shadows turn the clock
toward a past we’ve learned to live with
late sunrise, early sunset
a shaded gray that makes
light bulbs a necessity whether
above kitchen tables, hallways
or seeing your way to bedrooms
sun streaming through evening windows?
that’s a beach thing, flatland paradise
but I digress
like mom said when we asked her how
she stood it without AC growing up
we didn’t know we missed it
6-20-25
Purple, pink, and red.
The colors he saw in the midst of our physical bond.
Passion, affection, desire.
I didn’t want it to end.
6-21-25
I feel safe with him
I feel seen
I feel heard
I throw fits
But he obliges
I don’t think he sees me that way
But at least it feels right
When I was born, we lived here,
in Van Hornesville and your Grandpa
taught at the Owen D. Young School.
That’s the house right there, two
stories, right across from the school,
your grandmother would hang clothes
on a clothes line right over there.
Cooperstown is where I was delivered
right behind the Baseball Hall of Fame.
I was nine or ten before I realized I
was actually born in a hospital, not
in the Hall of Fame parking lot.
The storm the night of August 4th,
all those years ago, caused a black out
at the Imogene Bassett Hospital so
I was delivered by lantern light
on my Daddy’s thirty second birthday.
I remember pieces, parts told by so
many voices , aunts and cousins,
parents and siblings, so that my own
memories are an amalgamation of
a collective experience in which
I have been an active participant.
6/21/25
KW
My vision withers in the Lowe’s garden center.
The apartment complex next door is wailing
with smoke detectors. I am flooded with red
panic, I am reeling into the tangle of mandevillas.
It is 90 degrees Fahrenheit and I feel volatile,
near syncope, memories strobing in the heat.
Hide my body in the soil bags, let me shut down.
The humidity is painted with sirens. Bury my head
like a flower bulb, the only peace is underground.
It will be silent there. None of these countless alarms.
I can burn without all the noise. I can sit like a rock,
legs crossed, stoic little dove, waving away the saviors.
My cousins once removed
or something like that–
they’re all just cousins to me–
are getting older.
Their hands are shaky,
their steps less secure,
memories fading.
A cousin I remember
as robust and hardy
now looks delicate and fragile
only two years later.
Once these cousins are gone,
I’m afraid the rest of us
will just slowly drift apart.
