wash your rice
when you’re weak and can barely eat
wash your rice
when you stumble through your first sushi attempt
wash your rice
when the heat is stifling and there’s horchata to be made
wash your rice
when the arroz con leche is for dinner
wash your rice
when you need to stretch the frijoles
wash your rice
when the grocery bill doubles
when the world boils over
when you need something to stick to your ribs
wash your rice
watch your eyes
i can confess now that i think
about it far too often; my patience,
the summer heat that sticks to us
so far apart. i can confess that i often
wonder if karma is real and if god
is vengeful; does he slash through
my wants like brushing aside winter
snow when we were so far from
each other? or does he want and
ask and plead just as i do? i can
confess now that i have been prone
to blasphemy, and the season peaks
and wears thin, and i think and wonder
now too often what will happen in that
same quiet room, that same hallowed
rain, that same quiet dark, that same karma
that bites now because it feels good
She takes a big pinch of dough
and bakes it into a sensuous loaf.
She looks at me, winks,
puts the bread on the cooling rack,
slices it with utmost tenderness, spreads
gooseberry jam on both heels. There
is no dogma in her hints,
slight nudges only. Her body
is a Corpus Christi
in tight leggings (vermillion
exposing the curves of a million
desires). The orbed fruit
stings my tongue with its sour
whip, the wheated host helps
the glob slide down my gullet.
Swallowing again is hard to do,
I close my eyes and fight off
an ugly grimace. when I open up,
she’s flung her arm out
the window with the birds’ share
and now turns and smiles
with a loose ease that says
take it or leave it
I know this car like
I know my body
(some days not at all)
mostly the distance
between the mental gear
that rotates down
and the true surface
that makes contact
with pedal. My dad
would say, is this really
the one you want to go out on?
As opposed to, in his mind,
a 1976 F-100. I will not make it
so obvious for people. Who I
am, what my body is. Last
month somebody shattered
the rear passenger window
and took only a stuffed tiger
from my childhood. That is
seriously fucked up,
everyone said. Yes,
and why did it take me
an hour of picking glass
out of the dirt to notice
that it was gone?
The Cenotaph to Poetry’s Memory:
©️Winter Dawn Burns
Biggots see maggots in humans resting, and yet more land to survey.
This is an ordinary day
starting with a hopeful
attitude of anticipation.
I am delving into
the cupboards of my mind
and daring to open cans
or boxes filled with
shredded golden wheats
of happiness or tribulations
in hopes of aiding
my awakened hunger
and help nourish
my thoughts into maturity.
The effort to improve
only increases
my appetite for greater portions
and I find myself pulling
ever larger quantities of foodstuff
from my brain until I am covered
with the Jell-O and sugar substitute,
both satisfyingly sweet
but, alas, my reward for the day.
I surrender to the sweetness.
I.e. it’s just an ordinary day.
