Posts for June 4, 2026 (page 11)

“I hated my hair, and I hated my shirt.” – Jason Bredle, “Pinball City”  

I hated my glasses
and my eyes for needing them.
I hated the gap between my front teeth
—called a diastema—
and I hated my mind for making me
look that up. I hated being asked to sign
up for the app.
I hated being asked, “What’s a good name?”
before I could get my coffee,
which I didn’t hate at all.  

I hated hated hated
repeating my date of birth three times each time
I visited my rheumatologist.
I hated my demons
though I admired their work ethic
and my guardian angel
whose bathroom breaks
had become too long, too frequent.
I hated my manuscript
for not writing itself
while I sunbathed on my grungy hammock
for which I held no hatred whatsoever.  

I hated the noisy construction next door
and the indeterminate finale of The Sopranos.
I hated the tailgating trucker
and the slowpoke in the pink Prius,
not to mention my seat in the back
of the plane by the bathroom
and the flight attendant
whose legs stretching across the aisle
I did not hate at all.  

I hated my own jokes because
I’d heard them all before.
I hated the hiss of a snake
in my rusty voice
and I hated the calendar
filled with dreaded dates,
the first day of school and yet another
birthday, one giant step closer
to the grave, which I hated,
and how just looking at the calendar
made me hungry for cake,
which I definitely didn’t hate.
You’d have to be fucking deranged
to hate cake.

raw fledgeling vaulted
thorn guarded nest assaulted
cleft pear stump salted

shooters’ growth halted
big hairy humans faulted
crows’ ire defaulted

hard work exalted
habitat somersalted
Who the fuck planted these damn pear trees in the first place?

tickling my cheek
it moves threadlike

sinister appari-
tion, mouth flickering, 
its stalked eyes gleam
towards me
crawling.
hand placed on lever,

moment becomes months, i  
ebb here one glimpse longer.

monster crabs
approaching still,
claws and algal slime.
hanging over the world, 
isolation, desolation abominable:
north only darkness;
east, Dead Sea, stony beach, red sky

            Everything

            Everything that I will tell you
           happened within miles
            of where I am right now.
            In fact, there is a temple
            on this base that Abraham’s
            father worshipped in,
            and ruins of his home
            are still here.

            I have not had
            an opportunity yet
            to make my way up
            to the Ziggurat,
            but I am permitted 
            to go there alone.
            I have added links
            so you can see it.

Whispers of the dead reach my ears

Those insatiable in life are still hungry

I miss the touch of their hands, of tears

Shared over memories that bound us

Their echoes offer a fading palimpsest

As they withdraw, leaving only traces

Of a word said, a look that said more

The tinge of jasmine they loved

Time whirled around us as if it would

Last forever. It is not until they are

Gone and I am still here that I

Consider what comes next

Earth devours what remains as we

Sink into the great mystery, returning to

Where we come from within the glow

Of starlight as it passes into infinity

(After “Bloodland” by Brigids Grove)

My breath becomes lodged in my throat
Like the stale drag of a Marlboro cigarette
As I listen to the voice on the other end of the phone
911   What’s your emergency?
My mouth opens but the words are held hostage
911 What’s your emergency?  

I stare blankly at the phone     lips trembling       
My jaws unlock      words rush free
My body is trying to kill me  

Excuse me?
The dispatcher asks
As if trying to decipher a cryptic code  

I draw a deep breath before answering
Begging my nerves to keep silent  

My body and I have been in an abusive relationship for years
I was gutted like a fish      sliced open with a scalpel
Entrails removed     a damning tumor had taken residency in my liver  

My body is left with rotted umber marks
A jagged scar begins under my breasts   
Winds to my belly       like the volatile currents of a river 
Reshaping the landscape of my stomach  

In a calm tone that betrays what my body feels
The 911 operator says
I am dispatching the EMS and police to your address
Remain on the phone until they arrive
Tell me what is happening now     

I’m fighting fatigue
I’m fighting anxiety
I’m fighting mounting medical bills
I’m fighting the pretense that I am ok  

I see the units are pulling onto your street
They are now approaching your door
You may let them in and disconnect our call
Help is there 

I think we’re done. Sometimes brevity
is part of the gift. The perfect meal,
if you eat too long, becomes
an ailment. The best vacations
are the ones that end just before
they cease to nourish.

We have been an adventure
for a time, an unbidden generosity,
campfires and crag days, such
a kind surprise, but your destination

has always differed from mine. I need to pull
my hand free. Our paths ought to split
here in this clearing,
where we are still astonished
by how much goodness
there has been.

by using that cream that gets rid of wrinkles
by getting that plan that covers car repairs
by having that procedure done on your knee

it worked for her dad
it worked for that rapper
it worked for that golfer

what are you waiting for?

My mother loved salad bowls,
all shapes, sizes, textures, origins
made of woven wood, acacia,
mid-century designs with teak, smooth curves,
lathe turned, black walnut, red oak,
the treasured mahogany.
Porcelain with delicate flower blossoms,
vined ivy edging, trimmed in gold.
Fluted melamine with pressed folk art scenes.
Clay, earthenware heavy cylinders
with spattered blue glaze, sponged or brushed,
dripped or blown.
Most of her collection came from flea markets and yard sales.
I use a different salad bowl each time I prepare and relish a salad,
greens, endive, kale, red cabbage
cushion black olives dancing around the rim,
summer tomatoes with chopped basil and spearmint
soaked in stone milled oil dappled with memories of my mother.