The bridge had heard
of collapsing before.
The people who cross
sometimes talk of other bridges
that would fall and be
swept away by the river
and drive them to walk miles
to cross elsewhere. He can
feel every foot, every wheeltrack
traveling the length of his spine,
and sometimes the water
seems closer than the day before.
But he knows the bridges that
collapse are gone, and not one
of them know how many more
miles it takes without them.
During the pandemic, masks protected us
They were the bane of disease,
A shield medically necessary to keep us alive and well.
I still use them at times to keep myself and others safe.
Masks also protect one’s identity
They offer a wall to hide behind,
Preventing anyone from seeing the worst
And allowing you to be a shadow rather than yourself.
But when life gets hard
And a walk becomes a run
The mask shoots heat back into your face
Without letting any fresh air in
And if you start to drown
The fabric clings to your head
Even after you emerge from the water
It suffocates
there was a break in the storm
and the blueberries needed picking
naturally, the clouds broke open again
halfway through
we completed our task soaked to the bone and laughing
remembering the childhood joy of playing in a warm June shower
while the dog zoomed around the yard
chasing rabbits and raindrops
So many choices-
I meditate
I project into the universe
Hoping for clarity
Protection?
Joy?
Belief?
Courage?
In the end,
I decide on two jars
(I always need more)
First, a meditation jar,
interior swathed in tulle
containing rocks
dried glads or iris
(strength and moral fortitude)
A dried night blooming cirrus blossom
(beauty and endurance)
Second, a self-love jar
laced with Rumi quotes,
rose petals,catnip
(love magic)
sugar, rosemary
(remember the sweet),
pink Himalayan salt
(deep inner peace)
And paper hearts
Decision made
now to find the right jars, create
and find the right place….
She crafted booties, doilies,
sequined Barbie doll dresses,
formed like magic
by needles, hooks
flashing in table lamp light.
She knit order, crocheted sense
out of patterns at night
from factory days, cigarette smoke
haloing her bobby-pinned head.
She left miles of loops, meters
of chains behind each time we moved
gave them away for pennies, watched
them carried off to new homes
by strangers’ hands.
Mother, words stitch my life,
poem here
story there.
I learned from you
it’s best to set them free.
An author is in town for a couple of days
maybe he’s visiting his cousin
or maybe it has something to do with his day job
I don’t know, it doesn’t really matter
but he stops in the local library to
perhaps vainly, locate his own name
and he’s disheartened to find that
nothing he’s written is on their shelf
and he leaves wondering if this is ever going to pay off
not knowing that all of his books
were currently checked out.
i do not romanticize cannibalism
i cannot shape it into my poems
the nausea in my stomach rises
saw a passed opossum on the shoulder
and hide my tears with a sneeze
death laces the roads with a curse
jury duty fears my strong opinions
i’d argue for days against that penalty
too biased for humans and animals
