Next Time
I pray we meet in every lifetime
But next time you are safe
Next time you live a life of dignity
And if that means we don’t meet
so be it, two souls, liberation
forever intertwined.
Why haven’t you called
Are you safe
Have enough to eat
A place to stay
We worry about you out there in the cold and lonely
We want you to wander home like the lost kitten of our youth
Be the surprise in our cereal boxes
Tap our shoulder one day while we wait for the train
Persist like an infomercial we can’t turn off
Croon our heart’s favorite lullaby
It’s summer
We long to feel the rain cool our fevered dreams
Watch the old men nod away the sultry hours
Wallow in fireflies and lilacs
Be happy in our peaches
We’ll keep the light on
Taxes
I dreamed of you
and woke stunned, confused
by how that slap of memory struck.
Day by day, I long to answer a phone
that never rings. Your name
spans my vision, an ethereal caller ID.
“Hello? Hello? Are you there?”
Dead air greets me.
Released from pain by death
you slipped away while miles from me
though you remain ever present.
Mourning in morning’s light
grief unwinds again.
I thought somebody
put the banana
on top of my car
to ripen. However,
that is poor food strategy.
So maybe somebody
laid it there because he
had to tie his shoe
or answer a text
or adjust the leash
on his dog.
I would have left it,
but it looked good.
I checked it for suspicious marks
and needle pricks.
I figured the peel
was protection enough
against germs and
noxious cooties.
So I ate it.
It was just fine.
I pull out #140 cold press paper
and arrange the supplies.
I sketch a faint, droopy T
to center my art.
With a fine HB pencil and a light touch,
I shape an oval—
flattening your cap’s dented dome.
Now for the base.
Unlike a tree, you are wide as can be:
a thick, bulbous cylinder
for an inch-tall stalk.
Basic geometry.
I look up.
Morning sun strikes from the east.
I shadow your underside
and slice a horizontal line for loamy soil.
Pulling back, I consider your texture:
long, hatching strokes for the stalk,
smaller, frantic slashes for the cap.
I blend in natural dots—
slightly flawed.
The pencil rests.
I dip a #8 faux sable brush into pigment,
then into water.
A thin, bleeding wash of cadmium for the cap,
a pale, back-and-forth cream-tan for the base.
I study your underbelly.
Blow the cap dry.
Darken your spots.
Now, your warts.
I change my brush,
stipple on a harsh, bumpy texture
in dioxazine violet tones.
Step back again.
Mix yellow umbre to catch the light.
How deep does your base grow?
An inch? Two?
Anchored in by a dense web of hidden threads,
feeding on each other,
I understand.
But no others are close.
This is good.
I remove the spoon from my tea cup,
dig around,
dig deeper,
scoop you onto the paper.
I fold all up tight,
hold you over the fire pit.
Drop you.
Eradicate you.
Symbolic only?
I pray another prayer—
that the surgeon’s steel, too,
cuts out my friend’s fungal-
shaped cancer, leaving
not a single vestige.
pale angel in moonlight
bathes frail frame
after falling from afar
transforms herself
just enough to feel fear
that it wouldn’t be enough
