You
might prefer me not
to cuss so much, but there’s no
such thing as clean Cole.
(Dr. Hue returns at the end of July.
Helen is occupied with Julio.
Brian, a man at I met at Felicitous
Coffeehouse, is an avid birder.
We spend Mondays at Lettuce Lake,
a wildlife refuge on the Hillsboro River.
He is more than my field guide)
filtered light
tangled up
in swampy marsh
palmetto undergrowth
cypress with knees pressed tight
this cloth of wild
where osprey prey,
one young man, one old
hold their breath
hold hands
watch and listen
for the Qua Bird
his gutteral call
suddenly silenced
as his vicious
beak in fast slash
spears a fish
he swallows whole
a holy act
of true communion
Want outdoor shower.
What could be more poetic?
summer, fall, cold—–
STARS!
Your aura takes no prisoners, your vibe cascades into harmonies, your smile burns my unsurities, and your hair —
Well
Your hair
For Hannah and Charlie
Burning tongues with French classroom coffee,
laying in the schoolyard in cold gold sun, haloed
by leaves the same candy apple red as my hair,
we lived briefly beautiful. You kept on living
when my vanishing act lost all of its magic.
Now I dream of before: the gas station journeys,
the art room philosophy conversations, Snoopy
and Elliott Smith and pet photos in the group chat.
Those days we’d walk through ginkgos to the Co-Op,
and I still remember the bakery blueberry danish
you bought me, all those apple chais, staking out
the booth seats. Curled in my purple corduroy coat,
I’d marvel over your rainbow dye job, your cover
of Videotape by Radiohead. When I could still drive,
the first with a license, I’d sit in my car an hour early
to school, watching the sunrise creep over football field
guarded by a chain link fence vined with morning glories.
My windows were tinted so violet, it was like sinking
into a tranquil void. Yet somehow the city streetlights
to your house still shimmered after homecoming,
after the Fourth of July I was hit-and-run rear-ended,
after all those afterschool lingerings, after park days
and Halloween pumpkin gutting and music video making.
The way home was always singing Ann Don’t Cry.
Now I don’t sing anymore. I hover silently paralyzed
over this phone line, knowing you’d welcome me
anytime with love forever, knowing I could never
blink past the shame of this strange stunted goodbye.
Blinding pain in my upper right mandible.
Fish heads for the cat. I’m throwing my
weight around- I’m ‘solid’. Please, give
me ten more minutes where I’m nothing.
I’m searching for words that will make
the same shape as my heartbeat. “I could
be like you,” what a joke. Right? Whisper
to your hips in the mirror, pants slung low.
Shoulder clicks behind a five pound
dumbbell, flex, stand up straight. Black dog
comes running when she hears the whipped
cream can. I remember the bugs, dropping
them live into isopropyl alcohol. The wind
rolling over the narrow creek, the light
bouncing off the water travelled 93 million
miles just to get confused and turn around.
After I’m gone, my children and husband will find
curious treasures, pause to decipher the woman
who kept a ribboned box, Japanese fan, or foreign coin.
To help, I slip tiny notes now for them to know
the black stone brought from the bottom of Lake Monroe
while diving like dolphins with their father
or the buckeye in my battered sewing box, the one
that rode long before in Granny’s pocket, rubbed dull
by superstition’s determined hand
or my dimestore Chewbacca on top of the computer, not
a toy at all, but a sci-fi gargoyle perched, protecting me
from demons at my word temple
or that Navajo eagle belt of silver that tinkled in its circle
around my girl-waist in Santa Fe, the girl certain
she was an Indian princess who could ride bareback
and those dented Seven-up liters of Carolina sand,
the bleached Mexican shells smuggled, suitcased,
from oceans I couldn’t leave behind, all put away, away.
Just like a perfect summer day
She is sad to see this end
Surely this challenge isn’t for her
who is this silly girl
June 30, 2025
I spent this day,
working on a car,
that was sold to
an old lady
when it should
have had a better
mechanic than I am,
trying to fine tune
it
with the magic
of plastic.
I will go back
tomorrow
and cuss
some more
the lady,
a Ford executive
assured me,
that the lady’s
only job was
to figure out
where to put parts,
so a shade tree
mechanic
could not get
to them,
without buying
the right tool.
There is
no
right tool
for
poetry.
