It’s so humid that you can chew the air.
Fireflies graze my shoulder whispering “it’s 87 degrees in the shade, go inside where the bought air is.”
As the sweat sloshes in my undergarments, I make my way inside only to see my papa covered in blankets with his heater turned toward him.
I can’t tell if it’s the menopause or the weather but I may sleep in the swimming pool tonight.
Let’s be honest, I always say it first,
and with a not small amount of fear in my throat.
Usually a gamble, a manuever, a Hail Mary to get them (well, all the hers)
to stay a little longer —
still, always true, in a bipolar sort of way.
A “We’re all God’s children” sorta way.
A “Don’t you love me?” sorta way.
A “Cuz I don’t love me” sorta way.
This time though, to you (only you)
I said it in a “Did you see the news?” sorta way,
cuz it was true and trending, and could be useful
information to have, at some point, perhaps at trivia.
And you said it back in a “I did see that” sorta way
that made me burst into tears, hot happy tears.
And you called me a silly goose.
I don’t complete you, because you are whole.
And, I suppose, I am whole too.
But our wholes press together,
swelling into a greater, grander, always growing,
whole.
The world needs to breathe
in for five, hold for
five, exhale for five.
Repeat.
Then, perhaps, we won’t
need to lob bombs, shoot
people we don’t like,
don’t agree with.
Breathe in, hold, breath out.
Wait. Repeat. The world
becomes less clear,
more nuanced.
Things are better now.
Not better in the way of solved,
more like modifying your expectations
so that you don’t end up angry.
I’m sorry that I was angry.
The pills weren’t doing enough
in the wrong combination
to work. I now have
a direct line to my psychologist
and can get refills by text.
I’m sorry that nothing else changed.
I still wear T-shirts, still
work the same job, the same
fast food restaurants for lunch,
the same wife to come home to.
I’m sorry that I’m still angry.
That you and I used to be friends
but aren’t anymore. That you changed
and I didn’t grow right with you.
That when I opened up to you,
you ran. I’m sorry that I dumped
all that on you, but you were
my friend, and who are you supposed
to tell these things to?
The December night she died
she sang all the verses of “Silent Night”
and then told us to go home and leave her alone,
and just like that
she left.
No good-byes, no hugs, no nothing
but that had always been
her solitary way.
Like the rest of us,
she had had precious little control
over the circumstances of her life,
and we always said if it hadn’t been for that feisty streak,
she would never have made it
through all those hard years.
She used to sayto hell with those old men down at the church,
bringing their sack of sardines and spinach, as though
their handouts gave them the right
to pass judgment on her poor soul
and if it wasn’t for us kids, she’d have told them
exactly what she thought.
And then one day, she made a list
of all the things she thought she needed:
some good bread, a little cool water, a small
patch of forget-me-nots,
and the music—
oh, yes! the music!
All day long I hear howls, barks, and squeaky toys.
Sometimes one of those humans walk past and say–” good boy.”
But my favorite comes by, holding a leash in hand.
Outside to play? Or learn a new command?
No. I’m taken for a walk. A quick one into a strange room.
There’s a mad furball but it’s not a tennis ball. What a strange yard to bring me to.
The furball hisses and spits. Can I go now?
I would rather play fetch or eat peanut butter. I don’t want this furball around.
My favorite human takes me out. No longer able to be annoyed.
Back into my clean home. “That’s a good boy.”
Written from a possible POV of a dog who had a cat interaction at the humane society.
They have you doing the dirty work.
Cleaning up the messes you didn’t make,
caution signs on the corner of every aisle,
wrong turns send you colliding,
so you try again.
The complaints are the worst of it.
There’s always a new situation,
something out of your control,
you have to give something,
to keep from an explosion.
You don’t know what makes you stay.
The obligations to make it right
take hold of your senses.
But I won’t be you anymore.
I quit.
Bandage covers right side
from ear to bottom of jaw—
a sharp angled line as
where creek meets cattail
& cardinal flower, where
winter branch meets azure,
where rock meets rock.
And yet it is the left side
that fascinates me, or over
green-coat shoulder-pasture,
past the face so like a cliff.
Geishas in a valley, women
dressed in scarlet & sapphire
waving a fan so pearl it knocks
out sun until only outlines remain—
sleek stygian hair, cherry blossom
tree elbows, pyramid-mountain
distant & dreaming.
