Posts for June 29, 2025 (page 8)

I.

not yet stiff

wings tucked

beak still clean

the weight of air

still shaped the body

each feather recalling

its intended task

bloodless

the sudden absence of angle

a hunter undone

by speed not its own

a body mistaken for refuse

until the eye caught talon

rust-band crown

black-barred back

the field remembered

what silence meant

only symmetry

and the thin line

between strike and sky

II.

wind lifting

not yet a name

only form

the field below

creased like thought

a seam of mouse

a thread of scent

breath inside the breastbone

held like a knife

each muscle

a question

unanswered

until now

then

tilt

fold

the world narrowing

to one sharp line

speed her only language

and silence

its echo

no witness

but the sky

and the shadow

brief as permission

I just want to sleep.

today
tomorrow
next week
next month
next year.

I have no FOMO.
Instead I have FOA.

Fear Of Attending.

Louise:

A collective of women assumed 
an adventure of choice
for all seasons and engaged in writing
 and sharing their wisdom
as they turned, turned, turned
in the sun, in the cover of the moon,
in their silken robes with swirls of satin
ribbons blowing around them, like the
cascading myrtle swaying
from the ancient portico
that stood outside their meeting room,
a humble reminder of the peace
they craved like sweet honey on
warm bread.
Heads covered in golden saffron dyed scarves
they assembled in secret, speaking in whispers
that floated across the universe.  The women
sat in a circle on a dirt floor and wrote the
Book of Ecclesiastes.
Grace etched out the words that flowed from
caring hands and elegant minds onto
perfectly bespoken papyrus, in a
realization of changing times
that challenged the olive tree to flower,
the red-tailed hawk to soar above
transcendental echoes. They crafted
their words with ambivalent meanings,
perpetual motion, wiser than Solomon.
When finished the women knew
it was time to dance under the
wide brimmed cedar.

tucked into a used copy
of Elizabeth Strout’s novel
“Anything is Possible”

The previous owner of the book
left a notecard stuck in the middle
of the story, as if

they they gave up on finishing—
and on the card, in red ballpoint
loopy cursive:

1. What’s the plan?
2. What’s the prognosis?
3. Will heart recover?

Above the list, an illustration
of a blue butterfly
alongside a striped bee on a daisy

down below, beneath the word “recover”
a tiny watercolor of a golden-breasted
Evening Grosbeck

whose numbers have plummeted
by 92 percent since 1970.
Will heart recover?

There is a red apple,
hanging low
and alone
on a naked branch 
of an aged, diseased
William’s Pride Apple tree.

From the porch 
it looks perfect,
tempting me to walk
in flip flops,
across the overgrown 
tick and chigger
infested lawn.

Robin eats a juicy, fat worm in the grass
Red shouldered hawk, kee-aahs as it circles above
A  brown haired child laughs while swining
Life being what it is, unaware

Of danger lurking Fascism creeping,
Creeping, creeping ever closer
While humans pretend
Pretend, pretend
Until the knocking At the door

The longer I know you, the harder it is to keep my distance.
Drawn ever closer by your magnetic presence
like a planet in orbit
forever circling its oblivious star.

Helpless to break free even if it wanted to.

    We were so close

Johnny removes the footrest

from his older brother’s wheelchair

allowing him to drop his foot to the floor

preparing to slide himself into bed.

    I could taste it.

Johnny removes the armrest

slides it under the desk & reaches for

the sliding board.

    That sucks, Donnie says

leaning left lifting slightly

Johnny pushing the sliding board underneath

leaving half on the wheelchair & half

on the bed already lowered as far as it

would go creating a downward movement

making it easier for sliding from wheelchair to bed.

    Same thing happened to me in football my senior year

Donnie places his hands on each side of his thighs, heaves,

pushes, then slides onto the bed & quickly braces himself

while Johnny picks up his legs at the ankles & swings

them up onto the bed. Donnie leans back on his elbows.

    I can’t believe we let ‘em fuckin’ score in the last two minutes

Donnie’s legs shake

becoming still he lowers himself onto his pillow

Johnny unlaces old hiking boots, scuffed

from before the accident, finds

the remote & places it beside the bed.

    We were so close.

he plops down in the wheelchair

surfs a few moments

then heads to bed.