In the doc, our voices flow
constrained to written word
that ebbs and goes. We
communicate, slowly,
like smoke-stack boats
oozing along the sea.
Send a flare that I can see,
let your story fly with voracity.
The seafaring journey churns
and burns with words, our
ideas roaming endlessly.
In the morning, the sun
says goodnight. We ship out
the dock and rest with delight.
My body suddenly keeps reminding me
I don’t have any babies,
even though I’m well aware
of my free range, child free choices
and mainly without the pangs of regret
I was assured would catch up to me.
My body never did right by me
in the reproductive department no ways.
Blood came early, in the night,
and by morning Mommy and Mamaw
made known I was a grown woman
way back in fourth grade.
It’s strange to think about a middle schooler
makin’ all them eggs
like the ones my friends done froze.
My mind was made up a long time ago
I’d never spend time on a nest
while the whole farm goes up in flames.
A View From the Veranda:
Two smiling rinds of
Does faith need a story?
what would the Ten Commandments be without it?
humanity is intrigued by
Moses ascending the mountain
two tablets on which the law was written
that by itself would not
have the same significance
without the visual
it’s hard
when I measure my self-worth
with all those goals I made
so long ago
still a distant horizon
that I’m not sure
I’ll make
here I am
standing in a barren orchard
a pretender
empty pockets
hands
with a full chest
of yearning
to feel that neon glow
a ripe red kiss
that spirals from the chest
like a confirmation from God
so this constant storm
will relent
and give me a single moment
to sit still
feel my body settle
without that heavy
unforgiving
break-your-fingers
to make it stop
at the edge of gritted teeth
to my younger self,
i would not say a thing
wise words and old truths would not give her anything
her youth will not come to provide
she deserves a wild, wide world to discover
i simply wish to stand inertly by,
watch her growth through grapple and strife
with the knowledge she will emerge again on the other side
having all the strength to do so,
over and over again
My teenaged self
paced, then turned
to face the phone,
that toad squatting
next to the TV Guide
on the end table.
I stared, then glared at it,
so stubbornly sitting there,
refusing to ring.
What a supercilious, imperious thing,
this frenemy
that kept my heart
on a tether
and my hopes
in a cradle rocking
gently, quietly,
driving me mad.
She drew cartoons with wry captions.
She built sculptures from stuff
she rescued from dumpsters. She painted
the trees that were my childhood
safety net. She populated her world
with brightly colored flowers.
Sometime along this timeline, she stopped
believing. Stopped thinking what
she did mattered to the world.
Stopped living.
I’ve stopped dating.
I’d rather watch trees.
The wind arrives.
The branches lean.
This tree has cured me.
Look at her.
Rooted.
Completely herself.
Yesterday the wind came through
and she lost three leaves.
I didn’t wonder
what it meant.
I have stopped calling longing
a spiritual practice.
The tree is still dancing.
And so am I.
I made tea.
I opened the window.
Nothing was missing.
