spirit full
the tune of an old church hymn
stings up through my tongue, to the back of my eyes
leaving a renewed sense of guilt in its wake
along with a deep warmth
in the bottom of my belly, to keep me full
the tune of an old church hymn
stings up through my tongue, to the back of my eyes
leaving a renewed sense of guilt in its wake
along with a deep warmth
in the bottom of my belly, to keep me full
There are yellow lilies in the garden
Pink roses against the fence
Lettuce, radishes & peas in their garden plots
Raspberries & zinnias & strawberries in
the front garden
The curse of a cookie cutter yard has
no home here
Bees sleep in the sage
& robins make nests in the trees
I hear the songs of welcome
from the birds as the sun rises
I am so afraid of how colonialism
has torn us apart but at least
for this moment a butterfly
is safe here
surrounded by the soundtrack of
the Gods.
The suburban house in Camillus, New York.
I was eleven, maybe twelve. I had
my own bedroom for the first time ever.
The twins had moved down to the space
that had been my father’s office.
I inherited their old room, with windows
facing east and south. One night
that first week, something, not a sound,
woke me, pulled me from bed.
I stood looking out over the neighbors’
roofs. I watched the sky turn red
then green, the red again. I watched
Waves of shimmering color transform
the suburban sameness into something
rare and beautiful. I watched until
the lights stopped. I went back to bed,
to sleep. I never told anyone.
I was afraid I’d break the magic.
You do such a good job telling me what to want. I do such a good job wanting. Something in my gut. I’d die to come back as a fly on your wall. Am I precious? Am I wandering barefoot through the hedge maze in the rain? Fingers hooked in my dangling heels, mascara everywhere? I’m worried about my habits. I’m worried about my desires. I’m worried about my worry. The sun hits it just right and you can see the digital photo without even taking it. But, I’ve done things that I never thought possible. My changing body, animal angel. Buttons down the front of my sea glass shirt.
Good things come to those who wait. What would I earn if I waited forever?
(We left so much hanging in the air that meteorologists issued a severe weather warning.)
I passed upon an older man,
as I went on my way.
And asked him what lands I’d pass
upon tomorrow’s day.
“Good sir,” I said,
“what place lies yon ahead?
The suns grow red,
and I must know, before I get abed.”
Yet that old man said nothing,
some cat had scratched his tongue
there made no sound but huffing
and carrion that sung.
“Good sir,” I qouth,
“upon my trothe, don’t speak it all at once!
You’ll tell me yet, and not too soft,
and tell it all forsothe.”
And that old man looked up at me
with eyes that did not see
and like a hoary willow shook
as silence he forsook:
“That is a place no man yet knows,
all ring’d around with old willows
It lies within the Sorren swamps
where bogs sink deep like giant-stomps
So deep you can’t bring horses there
nor steel nor mail nor might
For that’s no place for arms to bear–
no sir–no place for naught but night.”
I count the years by the number of frames
perched on foreheads,
by the number of letters
I can see without squinting.
Usually, it’s the elbows that gives up my age.
No matter how many creams
I spread across my throat and elbows,
myopia and elbows betray.
My friend told me about the bastards
on one sunny Southern California day
while I pushed a stroller
and she paid off her son’s college debt.
It’s the elbows where all the skin gathers,
like rings on a tree.
Her glasses hung around her neck
ready at any moment to read something important.
But it seems, as the details fade,
those black-and-white runes evade me,
that the big picture comes finally into focus.
The heart of a pig rinsed blank white
infused with human stem cells
to insure acceptance by the body-
the hybridized organ assimilates.
Do the happy rooting mud memories,
the grunts and squealing rolls
get deleted or transferred
to the new owner’s muscles?
Imagine all that rebranding
only to fight the urge to bask
with your belly to the sun in a puddle
for even more years.
I get my nails done
Read sexy books
Play with my kittens
Live a life distanced
I count down days
Until my eighteenth
Watch hours of movies
And kiss my girlfriend
I take long long naps
Write short short stories
Pray to Jesus and Mary
Delete text messages
As eyelids grow heavy
So does the quarter
Tucked in my brain
Just behind my ear
Waiting for its turn
Darkness prevails
And the quarter rolls
Pushing its way
Into the slot
Excited for what comes next
The machine dial turns
As filled balls
Tumble about
Until one falls
Out of the opening
My brain eagerly
Breaks open the ball
To discover what sort
Of bliss or horror or oddity
Appears tonight
