Hard Things
I don’t know which is harder:
saying goodbye to the past
or saying hello to the uncertain future.
Not that I have a choice about either.
I don’t know which is harder:
saying goodbye to the past
or saying hello to the uncertain future.
Not that I have a choice about either.
Part IV: An extended day of extreme heat advisory? No way!
I walk outside at 5 a.m. Humidity zaps my strength away.
I decide if I’m going to dive into a painting again today,
perhaps it should be one of my creation? No hidden nothings,
no emotional ties. I pull out an 8 x 8 gesso board and
a new acrylic sample set. Three inches from the bottom,
I swath on teal bleu lagon and tinge of titanium white
with a three-quarter flat brush. I mix touches of diarylide
yellow, crimson, ultramarine blue, and much white
to create a beach below. I play a while with a rainbow
of colors for background, and when all dries, I sponge
on fluffy white clouds for a welcoming sky. I step back.
All feels safe. Now I sketch on a tiny margarita glass.
Then fill it large. I step back again. One more detail.
I sketch on a second margarita for you.
ekphrastic from Margaritaville by Michele LeNoir. Acrylic on gesso. June 26, 2025.
(both the tiny painting and poem will need touch-ups later)
Noon pins the feral cat’s cry flat
against the brick outside.
It’s hard for me to give in
to impulse—even this:
to lift my body, brush off
the heat’s blanket, and place
a dish of bologna out for the beast.
When I do
the heat flattens me
soft into this same-old spot,
while I wait and beckon–
stare at a stain of some thing spilled–
my shadow pooled like condensation
under the concrete, cracked–
an accident of fate.
Two streets over,
a siren dissolves into the heatbleached air.
I count the dead cicadas
like so many blossoms: their beige-ing edges
curled akimbo–broken dancers.
My split heel grinds a pebble
into itself: A/C crack
in the thick hum.
I fight against the stasis
every now-and-then
to surprise myself—
Then—
electric.
Feral as a minnow’s dart
I watch, hold,
wait for the cat to come
or not. To take this offering:
my dumb, animal insistence—
this shared and confounding inner mystery.
One we both hold,
one that refuses our names.
When I was young
I didn’t fear the snakes
or ghosts that walked
The mountains at night.
The thing that crept
from deep inside
and made me sick most every night?
Feeling unloved and alone.
I earned the A’s
I starred in plays
and changed to earn
Applause, love and invitations.
I lost the things
that made me…me
traded her in for adoration.
She’s lost somewhere like those ghosts.
She wanders in circles
raising children who will leave
and in the silent house
That feeling will return.
was built to live in this
blue heat
think it birthed me sweet
baked me in those years of living in
the childhood home i actually remember
clear & shiny like a mirror in the smoky
past it was a house cooled
by fire a house baked in my father’s blue
tongue && his desire to live the white suburban
life his fantasy would prove to
to be the undoing to my small indigo pschye
&&&& we don’t speak of the years
i thought he would die by his own hand
we don’t speak of burning or
how his self taught narratives got him caught up
& obsessed with a snake of a women even satan
would cower at
but i can still feel it simmering beneath
my bones the betrayal & also the years held
hosatge by her families roots & how they wanted to
wash all the black of my blue body out of me
in search of the small drop of spanish blood
hidden deep in my teal veins i never loved
them but i always smiled so wide they could see the sky burning
inside me they all mistook the heat of anger bubbling
in me for soft warmth to them i was a forever softened sun
dim & quiet & too black for them to truly love
but i swear they were always in awe around me
like i was a puzzle they couldn’t figure out one they couldn’t touch
but mull over from a distance
Ice cream on the hottest day
can’t hardly remember
what the inside of a bedroom
is supposed to look like anymore
or feel like
can’t imagine numbing
myself to deep yearning
if only for a night
can’t even properly picture myself
naked
been lucid dreaming more
after a perspicacious mind
caught on to a cruel pattern
of only finding love
in REM sleep
spending all day
thinking about
someone who doesn’t exist
looking at a girl a little too long because
she reminds me
of that someone
to the point of forgetting
not to stare
then choosing not to try
saying hello
not wanting to get involved
in anything with anyone
for the potential of pain
drama
fuck off if you think it’s thinking too much
looking for other
best parts of the day
drinks with friends
movies and games
dearly cherished
even if none of it
completely nullifies
all this hurt
not allowing
such romantic dissatisfaction
to be so closely tied
with identity
let’s fly in lucid dreams instead
almost free
from any kind of desire
if not for living in fear
of my mailbox
the reply
to a letter
sent a month ago
one who could have changed everything
one who could still change everything
but if not her
nobody is okay
there’s a wealth
of other people to care about
they will carry the seasons over
from mutual greetings with tomorrow
to warm goodnights with perfect contentment
peace in loneliness
most
of her is absent
simply
an angelic
face
a dove
above
a nun’s headdress
praying hands
a sword to the left
of the viewer
(to the upper right)
a chalice
supported
by an anonymous
right hand
a touch of gold
a bit of red
suggesting
definition
Ekphrastic: “untitled,” Maeve Fiach (graphite, ink, and goldleaf on paper), 2025
And Lord I have prayed
give me give me give me
what I want
a gluttonous mantra
ownership / having / holding
a ring and a hand warm in my own
Lord give me what I want
a softer reality
an umbrella in the rain
shielding me from the flood
a passenger seat
someone to be thankful for
