Anfractwhat? Or How Straight Is Straight?

Unwavering
as an arrow
that spins
in order to slice
air, which isn’t as straight
as a ruler’s edge,
the arrow that is,
which has nicks
in it even after sanded
with rough, gritty
protuberanced-paper,
the arrow and
the ruler’s edge,
and when I sit
up straight
to write
there’s curves
in my spine
and when I look
I see straight
through imperfectly
sphered balls
ink drips
from the pen’s
rounded tips
whose nibs whip
blobbish droplets
into direct connects
between a and b.
Crooked fingers
grasp banded shafts,
wrists rotate to create
finely finished lines,
pencils’ leaded
conical points
traverse
in starts and stops,
leave little dots,
dupe fools
into thinking
unbent is without
twists or turns,
but I’ve learned
how anfractuous
straight really is.

All the energy I had,
you devoured,
in a matter of seconds.

I listen to you,
validite you,
love you,
support you.
When really,
I am biting my tounge,
so hard it bleeds.

There are words,
written in my mind,
only for your train of thoughts.
If I say them out loud,
you will go off,
like an atom bomb.

And, I will never see you again.

You are blinded,
so deeply by,
your own disasterous mind.

Will you ever feel ready to listen,
or does the truth terrify you too much?

I will change my power supplier tomorrow.

rows of worn shoes on
rusting racks above skirts,
sweaters, blouses—musty,
moldy scents—stale,
manure-like from leather
boots dumped at the thrift
store. scratched. yet their
character intact. a high-end
brand, too, she otherwise
could not afford.    willing
to attempt their healing,
she hands over 7.99, takes
them home, sprays lysol, stuffs
with newspaper. later spreads
on oil. conditions, buffs.
maybe it’s the thrill
of bargains when the world
pays little, taxes much–or
curious imagining of its
abandoned life. did money
make former owner happy?
or maybe it’s just that
the boots spoke to her,
said, get me, i’m cool, too.

I want to bloom
in the late afternoon 
of my life 
like the solitary yellow
four o’clock blossom 
out my bathroom window–
last through the dark night
and be there when the morning comes
in a solitary yellow blossom.

Granny came into the world
shortly after the assassination of President Lincoln,
grew up during post-Civil War reconstruction,
and lived a long life in Southern Appalachia.
She witnessed the invention of radio, telephone,
automobiles, airplanes and television.
She lived through two World Wars, Korea,
and early U.S. involvement in Vietnam.
She mourned the assassination of three U.S. presidents,
the loss of four sons and her husband.
She saw astronauts go into space and orbit the earth.
While raising a family, she baked, canned, cooked,
farmed, gardened, washed clothes on a washboard,
weaved on an old-fashion loom,
and road side-saddle, all while puffing her
Pamplin, Virginia clay pipe along the journey.
She lived during a time when neighbors looked 
after neighbors and were willing to help.
I knew this strong mountain woman
and still ring her 1889 dinner bell,
she was my maternal great-grandmother.

There were many rugged female pioneers who helped build this nation, they were not famous, but without them we would have never made the journey!

Sunday morning, nursery arrival. Let’s go outside, get some air! A lone nighthawk slices through the light, her wings whispering secrets on the wind. Below, nestled amongst the rough wood and dry leaves, a tiny egg huddles, a fragile speck against the vastness.

We sit near the window. A bouquet on the table
previews the colors of the ceremony.

His family is caught in a downpour.
They bustle in a few minutes late,

his father wearing an umbrella, floppy hat
and jacket, his sister bringing her brother a new belt.

We share anticipation as well as a meal
of antipasti and steelhead trout. Nobody

has time to explore the greenhouse in the back.
His unruffled mother asks the tricky question

of us all: How do you feel? After the rain,
an alert server volunteers to snap a photo

of our new configuration, a realignment
of the future on the shiny pavement.

She touches the corners together
The edges kiss as she takes
the soft cloth and flips it like
a pancake making a small tent

Bonding   we mark her feat
with applause   newcomers
and sponsors   breaking
bread in her second refuge

Not long ago   she says in Hebrew 
she folded tent after tent night
after night at an Israeli resort
diners indifferently wiping their
mouths with her modest creations

Tonight   I emulate her skill
whipping my napkin
from my lap   laying it flat
upon the table before folding

Lost in her language   I speak
with this weak sleight of hand
rarely mentioning Eritrea
her escape across the border
her daughter she left behind

More missing teeth, so thin, brief conversations

the subway murder of the 30-year-old man

having a breakdown, yelling I’m hungry

the marine who put him in a chokehold

the passengers who held him down

till his body became limp

     he’ll be okay, someone said

minutes past, there was no okay

his sister said they tried to help

     he just kept falling through

My eyebrows are like hedgerows,
I always need to trim em. 

My eyebrows are like headlights,
at night I have to dim em. 

My eyebrows are like novels,
but you can always skim em. 

My eyebrows are like oceans,
so deep you’d best not swim em.