So many emotions
so much to do
only so many hours
so many tears too
rushing, pausing
pausing, rushing
I should do
More pausing
Less rushing
We only get to do this once
We only get to be in this place
Where time and life comes together
Loving you has never been linear
Letting go will never get easier.
10 minutes to make a poem about
How alone I feel
How Peabo passing doesn’t seem real
How I’m about to hit submit on a piece that
May not matter ten minutes after I write it
Because none of this feels real
None of it
And if I thought I could save the world and
[Redacted]
You best believe I’d take a good run at it
Because you’re just as tired
As I am
Of living through unprecedented world events
So I’m going to do the next best thing that I can think of
Find a way to show the love I never received
Baby I been let down by folks you wouldn’t believe
And you would think I’m worse off because of it
Or maybe even that I’m in love with it
Nah it’s not that at all, I just love being black
I love being me, I like the struggle
I like it hard, duct tape, rope, with it
And now I’ve realized that I want all the smoke with it
I’ve gone from feeling broken and hopeless
To regaining my focus
And all of you who doubted before, I hope you noticed
This is for all who thought I was finished
For those who thought they could crush my spirit
My light can’t diminish
Just think I wrote all of this
For you to read
In ten minutes
never had i seen him
look so beautiful and
so alive
his beard was trimmed
to precision- not one wayward
hair dared peek from his
sculpted salt and peppered
mustache
he wore sunglasses that day
and if there is one thing i do
know- it is that he rarely allowed
anyone to see beyond
his shades
right now i realize
i don’t even know
the shades of colors in his eyes
nor do i know the touch of
his hand in mine
not once did i ever get
that close to him
it was only on that day
that i ever kissed his cheek
one kiss- i allowed myself
to get so close to him that
my tears dampened
his now hollowed chest
i looked and i looked
closer and closer i got
i think i tried to memorize
his face
i searched his cheekbones
looking for my own
i scanned his forehead
and found its size to be
scarily similar to mine
the shape of his
ears and his nose-
there it was again
as clear as day- my face
i found the origins of my face
in his corpse and
i wondered about
his heart and i wished
i had been strong enough
to unbreak it
but on that day
he looked at peace
he looked as if he had let
it all go and somehow
i realized that i had done
the same
i am convinced that the space
between us closed on that day
and now i am simply a daughter
who loves and misses
her dad
A life lived in lines
does not add up
in the cosmic geometry
of hope and humanity
we spin each year
on our harried way.
Too many people measure
where events end and experiences begin
to understand where they themselves exist
apart from everyone else.
The sad shapes they conjure
jut corners and angles
to give these people off-ramps
where they can debark
lives that have spun
out of their control.
A far more favorable form
emerges from the returning desire
to revisit and reclaim dreams
that simply will not land
because those aspirations sustain us
by forcing us to search for the site
where the ends of circles meet
and become real.
Time seems to rumble by like a rusty train
Rushing to make it right on time
Roaring and rolling, steam blowing
No retreat, no warning
The scalloped silver bowl sits front
and center in the sanctuary, half-full
or empty every Sunday morning.
Water to baptize or remember baptism.
One morning a woman asked as I filled it:
“You get your holy water from the tap?”
I hate I disillusioned her, but really, what
did she expect? That each week I hiked
some high hill, stone jar balanced
on my shoulder, called down
water from the sky?
Still, in many places, water is drawn
with rope and bucket,
collected from streams,
filtered with charcoal and fire,
passed through chapped and split lips.
In many rural somewheres as we speak,
fields crack open like dry knuckles
in winter, while giant generators
guzzle water meant for living,
harvesting not crops
but human thought. Sacrilege
of the highest order.
O human, don’t you know? Holy
is the water from tap and toilet,
Elkhorn and Jordan, in tear ducts
and pores and my dog’s metal bowl,
in tides and torrents and trickling in buckets,
gushing fountain of every living thing.
may the cold grate beneath your hooves
give way to endless soil, galloping fields
of rolling grasses, where you never feel
another brand.
may each wound leave your flesh,
ascendant, beyond electric stinging prods,
yellow ear tags, preventable disease.
may you meet yourself in heaven
amongst the misused, forgotten
and meek.
let primal fear melt, roiling from
your shivering hide, rising to kiss
the ceiling of the slaughterhouse,
freeing you from an angry ghost.
may your rage learn to haunt your
abbatoir. may it bear down upon
us in your wake.
may your final destination be delayed,
an extra hour of sun, blood and breath,
an extra dose of instinct to flick away the flies.
may this world feel
less like a cage
for us all.
Lightning bugs are blinking to life
and shining deep in the woods
flashing away in search of reciprocation,
an indicator that metamorphosis can end
in finding a mate.
Their fleeting glimmer is a sure sign
that summer is here
in spite of the breezy blue skies
and a chill in the air at sunrise.
Lightning bugs are actually beetles,
burrowing in the darkness underground,
living most of their lives as larvae
illuminating a muddy world.
But their bellies are empty
and appetites endless.
Their bioluminescent beauty
comes at a cost.
Glow worms are venomous
and ravenous and paralyzing
and known to devour snails and slugs
or even a night crawler now and then.
Poor bastards ain’t got a shot to wriggle away.
The world rewards appetite.
For youth.
For beauty.
For novelty.
It teaches us
to mistake wanting
for love.
Yet there is something deeper.
A well beneath the river.
A root beneath the blossom.
A cathedral beneath the stone.
And when you see me—
the hidden architecture,
the dark water,
the unfinished places—
and choose to stay,
I think that is the closest thing
to grace I know.
Because attraction
is merely the eye.
But recognition—
recognition is the soul
refusing to leave.
Soft amber glows and whispers of a summer to come take me back to a Friday at the end of the eighth grade walking down the sidewalk to the construction and thinking that this is what life must be like
Low hanging branches over my head make me wonder why I never reach out to brush my fingertips against them as I walk
Even so, the world feels wide for now
