It’s Giving Thanks
It’s just I like sharing, and
word dishes
are the best thing I make.
Please scoop large servings
of yourself
onto my plate too.
I am holding it out to you.
It’s just I like sharing, and
word dishes
are the best thing I make.
Please scoop large servings
of yourself
onto my plate too.
I am holding it out to you.
I’ve already decided how I’ll mourn you
when you’re gone.
Buying a far too expensive candle at Christmas
from the local luxury goods shop, where they knew
you by sight and kept special flavors in the back
for you. A spiral cut ham
at Easter, glazed in fancy honey. Bubbles
in the grocery store, blown furtively around
corners.
I’ve been taking notes
all these years
for when the time comes.
hiss to tip to tail to marsh
tall grass fangful mighty and harsh
herpeticde sidewinding
adderall addering
tongue blinding scale walls with scaled sidings
rattling smatter corn snake’s attar
air bladder sea serpent surfing blue matter
whole eggs swallowed faster
wholly chicken coop disasters
skip the juicy reddest splatter
curate castrate castigate clatter
king cobra cottonmouth anaconda
queen the south
patens plated with anaphora painted
patent moccasin annular braided
snakeskin coral hognose hogwashed
diamondback doubleback doubledown waiting
wise and carated and ouroboros created
jewel mouth venom
long death
long body
spear whip weeping wounds and weal
I’m Smothering in this heat
I pull at my shirts collar
Fanning my damp skin
summer came early
a force to be reckoned with
she’s settled in these hills
hanging heavy in the air
clinging to your lungs with each struggling breath
I wipe my forehead
it’s only June
The dog days haven’t came yet
But for some reason I can’t stop panting
one day my love will live beyond the confines of page,
livelier than ribbon flowing ink of pen,
more colorful than any language spoken or written
in any of the languages i’ve never bothered to learn
these days, it is no longer my fear of the light holding me back;
i have had my moments in the sunshine-
with lovers who may have cloaked me in too much shade
but someday, i will feel worthy
to bring my adorations further than a lonely poem
on a longing night,
full of wistfulness for light
and the warmth of her embrace
You can’t take it with you is only one reason to not cling to material goods. The other, who is going to go through it? when you’re gone? Perhaps it’s best if someone unattached sells them at auction. Takes them to Goodwill.
unraveling life
of my parents could take mine
with each item touched
A piece of tinfoil lays crumbled near the gate, covered with overgrown bushes, sprouts from the tree we cut down years ago, overtake the stump. Furniture scattered on the front porch. Wind chimes collide with each other.
a pleasant morning
Mom hangs clothes on the line
Texas wind in trees
Some things remain untouched. Siblings have been broken apart. The family photo of smiles from 50 years has been replaced by quarreling and questions of what goes to whom and why. In the case of money, it is easy. In the case of memories, knickknacks and photographs, it is chaos.
the mantra letting
go with un-attachment is
unattainable
i like the way the rain pours
so beautiful in the wind
5 minutes past
gone again
we miss whats gone so quickly
what once was and what will never be
we ask ourselves, gently
why are we here
what’s it all for?
jump straight to conclusions
god, hope, an illusion
maybe we’ll never know
and that comforts me
all i know is who i am
not who i will be
what is here now
not what could be
the gods i worship
the earth i sing to
saying thank you
that i’m here
saying thank you
that i was
saying thank you
for all that breathes
into and around me
when i can’t breathe
for myself
this life is painful
and my heart aches
but the sun
that kisses my skin
as i write these words
sustains me in ways
i could never explain
even when i try to
Nearly every time you vomited,
it was hot dog, on your dad,
or in my slippers when you came to tell me.
Three hours into your scream-crying flight at 4 months old,
I handed you to a French lady who asked to hold you,
she patted your back and said, “She yust need to buhrpe,”
the screaming stopped, no one cheered out loud, but they did with their faces.
11:00 PM at a New Year’s Eve party,
11-year old you said, “You can go ahead home, Dad,
Mom and I will get a ride.”
You have never run faster than when chasing
a runaway dog- yours or someone else’s-
through busy neighborhood streets;
this comes up more than seems statistically probable.
We were all settled on the mat for prenatal yoga
when the peaceful music gave way to whale noises
I was snort-laughing and about to pee
when the instructor asked us to leave.
Even in utero, you were my favorite, joyful human.
