Posts for June 17, 2026 (page 10)

Does the young man see her dead eyes?
Spine to mattress, direct to camera.

The unchanged river beckons
me with an evening greeting.  My dearest
sits in his chair watching our river
welcome another sunset,
while distant buildings flash golden,
touched, as I am, by its glory. 
Next to him, the still water
and the sun’s display, 
I think I may never leave again.

How old am I?
Random bruises old. Sheesh–
Fifty, Back off!

I enter a room full of women I do not feel equal to
And men I am certain would not choose me, if by chance
Any of us were looking.  

Years of not quite reaching the marks she had set for me
I still hear the disappointment in her voice
You can do better are the words.

When the day comes

That you have worked towards

When you go to heaven

And stand before God

When he judges you

I hope you’re able to justify

The way you treated me

Better than I can

I hope you can tease out the inconsistencies

Of your love for me

To your savior

I hope it is worth it

To look in the eyes of Christ

And repeat what you’ve told me for years

I hope it gives you pride

To rest on the knowledge

That all your hard work must be fruitful

And most of all, I hope that when he hears your story

He sneers

That he refuses you

And that you fall

Into darkness and despair

Lost and alone

Just like me

Here’s the truth of the “matter”:

When you gaze at a galaxy through
your telescope (or at Andromeda with
your naked eyes) what you see are
photons from the galaxy, which have traveled
a long way (in the case of Andromeda, which
is 2.5 million light years away, they have traveled–
you guessed it–2.5 million years) to
enter your eyes and be absorbed by your retinas,
becoming–in physical reality–part of your body

I have been an amateur astronomer since I was a child
and, therefore, I carry the light of hundreds of galaxies
within my body–the energy of ancient places 
belongs now to me

the same thing happens when I gaze
at you

trucks full…baskets full…tables full
from orchards, from the corner market, dragons’
hoards of sweet golden
fruit ready to dribble down your chin your
hands and arms your bare summer legs

my mother on a ladder with a basket
plucking precious orbs of sunshine
kerchief on her head
dreaming of bright glass jars full of
summer…saved for winter treats

I would climb into the lower branches and
fall…plunk…on the red wood table below
“knocking
the wind out of me,” mother called it, my
abdomen hurt like a popped balloon but

next day I climbed and dropped 
again on the old red table
obstinate, dyspraxic 
child that I was…falling from the
legendary tree…the scent of peaches

I love you
and I miss you almost everyday
but I cannot turn back now

I see the path
paved in front of me
when I reach out my arms
you’re no longer within my grasp

I know that if I mustered
just a bit more strength
my fingertips
could just graze your surface

but I stay private
demure and aloof
and I cannot turn my neck
not even one degree

The moss had known my name.
The creek whispered,
syllable by syllable over smooth stones.
The trees had never asked for much,
only presence – bare feet, open palms.

I baptized myself in shadows,
wandering dry creek beds
during summer droughts,
spoke to ghosts in the bark of a sycamore,
read gospel in the heat lighting.

Goldenrods bowed in prayer
under the weight of the sun,
honey locusts casts spiny shadows
along my path, and the gnarled Osage
leaned over the creek bed.
Turkey buzzards circled like questions
I never needed to answer.

And when night came down,
thick as creek silt,
the whippoorwill sang me gently to sleep.