Posts for June 7, 2026 (page 3)

My mother says cherry like cheery, and I love
the bright sparkling sound of it. When she tries
to say warm it comes out worm, the soft O of her lips
not quite able to wriggle out the right vowel.

She does not say W like dubya,
to the consternation of her 8th grade English teacher.
(There ain’t no U in whittled, winsome, or weary.)

She says this heat is oppressive like this: “It’s hotter’n
Satan’s breath mints out here.”

She says my heart is breaking when she says,
“Your dad made eggs this morning and asked
if I wanted any,” and I say, “That’s weird,”
and she says, “Yeah, it was.”

When I ask her thoughts about my career, or God,
or if I’m ready to be a mother, she says
I have no fucking clue, and I’m terrified
I might tell you wrong, but instead
it comes out “I’ll be praying for you.”

And she does.

When she asks me what’s for dinner
and how I slept, over voice-to-text
and in her world-worn accent, she’s saying
I love you, I miss you, please forgive me.

briefcase full of company secrets
in the passenger’s seat
the Beach Boys’s biggest hits
over the recently repaired radio
four rubber duckies in four hawaiian shirts
walking in a line across the dash
the smell of last night’s pizza
versus the “new car” scented air freshener
one key with one Cleveland Browns keychain
stuck in the ignition

everyone remembers that snow
back in ’93
cooking over fires and thawing water
of kerosene-smelling clothes 
cold bologna sandwiches 

you were trapped in your house
emptied by the woman you loved
when she decided it was time to leave

I remember that winter because
it was the longest I ever
got to spend  with you alone
a solid week
building furniture to fill
that empty ancient farmhouse
with a dirt floor in the back room

you drank beer all day and night
shot moon whistlers through
the chimney
the scream and pop
muted by a snow-covered roof

it was the third time I saw you cry
when you called her on the phone
begged her to bring the kids home
told her that you’d do anything
to make sure to see your kids again
told me that you weren’t going to mess up
this time

played Conway Twitty on full blast

I wanted to remind you
that I used to sit on the phone
beg my father to come get me

but even then
at ten years old
I knew I had to be a man
stronger than you

I made sure the fire burned hot
knowing that I was never 
really yours

You and I alone on a wedding dance floor
trying to keep the party alive
The barn all dark save for string lights 
And soft purple
As we turned my views changed again and again
Over your shoulder, the bride and groom making rounds
Until eventually they came our way to say
There was one song left

Since the couple’s exit that night
The bride and I haven’t talked that much
If she called me right now I’d ask her about her new town
But in my memory of bouquets and string lights
There I’d still be
Wishing desperately for her and her groom
To join the dancers on the floor once more

Long gone are the days of
Mine and the bride’s school dances,
mornings waiting at the bus stop before school,
and choir rehearsals

Yes, I’d ask her about her town
I’d remember the wedding

But truly? Some 13 year old version of me would ask
some 13 year old version of her
How she’s doing now
with all this settling down 

And on the first day,
There was only silence,
A breath held between worlds,
A page waiting for ink.

And on the second day,
A word arrived—small, uncertain,
A single spark in the dark,
A whisper that dared to become.

And on the third day,
The world called to others,
And they came, tumbling, unraveling,
A sentence bending into being.

And on the fourth day,
Characters rose from the dust,
Eyes wide with wanting,
Tongues forming truths and half-truths.

And on the fifth day,
Conflict cracked open the sky,
Lightning flashing between paragraphs,
A storm of choices, mistakes, desires.

And on the sixth day,
An ending stood at the horizon,
Both inevitable and unknown,
Waiting for the writer’s hand.

i am my own
oracle.

what my stomach wills
must be so.

mother,
murderess,
mystic.

tell me what path
is not mine to walk
and i will show you
footprints.

i am both maker &
destroyer.

the king i built up,
the mage i cut down.

sword,
serpent-man,
stone.

tell me what men
say i cannot do
and i will do it
without an asking price.

The sun my only companion
today of all easy days.
I thought of you
on the ground,
ants crawling on my arms
smelling of heat and grass baking in it.
When I fell asleep,
my dreams were warm
though I woke up
cottonmouthed.

after Lewis Caroll’s Alice in Wonderland

1. 
There’s a house between ramshackle and pristine
in the middle of some unknown wood.  Inside are artifacts
I don’t recognize.  When I turn around, I see a unicorn
limned with a sparkling halo.
2. 
What if the furry boughs of that ornamental tree
were the legs of a dormant tarantula, and it woke to juxtapose
the golden sun against the silver moon?
3.
I traded all my oxidized pennies for a star to store in a jar.
Sometimes, it glows so brightly I almost can’t sleep. 
I wonder where it wants to go.
4.
“Sorry!” I say to my bed’s square frame after bumping into the sharp corner that will surely leave a bruise.
“Quite alright, madame,” it replies.  “‘Twas no trouble at all, you didn’t even scrape the finish.”

5.
The roses are so pink they’re red, inviting me to pluck
one, never mind the thorns.  If I roll up the flower, mash
the petals in my fist, and throw
it up as high as I could, the sky would turn magenta.
I could throw out my Barbie pink sunglasses.
6.
Did you know a fossilized saber’s tooth will rip
time?  I step through the gaping tear
to pull the wooly mammoths from the tar that would have consumed
them.   Back in the present, Big Bone Lick would just be a no-name forest, but if you went far enough north, you’d find tusk marks.

right wing Christians
still tilt at windmills
in intellectual wars
settled over a century ago
but blithely admit
today’s enemies
at the gate.

must have been fifteen years now we started collecting
right after the first funeral
(sorry if you thought this would be less morbid)
peace lilies, of course
also some other greenery, a few ivies
they have names
each one that of a family member
we just fell into it really – Bob needs watered, honey
that sort of thing
(not using real names here, they’re too special)
but you get the picture,
now it just seems strange had we not
I mean, it’s how we remember now
a watering, or repotting, feeding, clipping away brown leaves
the care we take now mimics
the love we had then, and still do
almost the perfect
inheritance