I wanted to say
life’s too short
to spend it
with miserable people
but gut-checked
my own aura,
plum and shades
of dull gray.
I’m not all doom
and gloom, I hope,
there are times
I eat the crisp green bean
straight off the bush,
laugh as the orange
spark races toward
the Black Cat
and write in yellow
across new snow,
my name,
as optimistically
as one can
under such conditions.
Laying next to her,
Light pouring in from the nighttime shades.
For the first time,
Forever.
Doesn’t seem long enough.
feminizer knockouts
experts refuting societal norms
matriarchal hives headed by queens
all-female workforce
males die after copulation
efficient tools for genetic manipulation
and deciding to sleep in,
let the brothers pray far below
in the ornate church of Saint Isidore,
his liftoff portrayed in dark colors
behind the altar, this levitating farmer—
while I, sluggard, justify these extra hours
for last night’s restless ones. Now the gulls
mock me in the dawning blue over Rome,
listing in loud laments my sins,
my shortcomings, their calls
much like my father’s
obsession with
time, prompt
attention
to work—
some impossible heights
I nevertheless hold
clutched in sheets
soaked with
remorse.
I used to climb trees
love means something different from such a perspective
it waited there for a girl too young to know the world too old to stop what’s become
not for want of effort the mother tried I’ll give her that
boy crazy nothing will come of you who says such things
lost to dementia she may regret but we’ll never know
she’ll never know
the shadowed little figure giddily shouting down joys thought invisible
the ghost of childhood sings God bless
even now when nothing remains but the waiting time
before inevitable branched reach this arm over an abyss
do we stand to repeat
or repent
only we can choose
All the words have fled
From the caverns of my mind
Everything is silent now
I’ve left all thought behind
From the caverns of my mind
A mist begins to flow
I’ve left all thought behind
My baggage still in tow
A mist begins to flow
The wisps to coalesce
My baggage still in tow
I struggle to confess
The wisps to coalesce
Everything is silent now
I struggle to confess
All the words have fled
I favored Clover, thinking it
quaint, vaguely
fairytalesque like an Irish
cottage. I plead hormones and
wistfulness about 1/36 of my
various heritages. Your dad used his
veto, and in retrospect it would
not have been powerful enough to
declare you.
He was enamored with Pollyanna.
I shit you not. I explained repeatedly the
connotation (I assumed he was unfamiliar) but
that somehow only strengthened his resolve.
What if you wanted to rebel and be a goth?
My veto cast.
Your mamaw liked Mackenzie. Something about
Scottish poet ancestors and strength and last
names as first ones, like your
mama and your aunt.
But Madeleine, like:
the perfect french cookie,
Peyroux,
Albright,
Mary Magdalene,
with history, gravitas, grace.
Recognizable but
uncommon enough to be
unique.
Your preschool teacher mispronounced it
(like the book character) enough that you
argued with me when I
said it correctly. That year you ran from me in
the grocery store, and I had to regularly
restrain you on the lawn after pickup, wrangle
you into the van, slide the
door closed and try to
breathe myself back from
tears because you refused to
take a damned nap after
age two, the lone tiny
body sitting up on her
mat in the dim, serene classroom
chatting to the nearest grownup.
So. Many. Words.
In school your class had another
Maddy for three years straight. Friends
called you “Good Maddy” and her “Bad Maddy” which seemed
uncalled for. There was a bonus Maddy on most
soccer teams you were on, and on most teams you
played against for thirteen years.
(As a coach, how do you not sub a Maddy for a Maddy
every time, just to keep what you’re yelling clear?)
In middle school you complained no one knew
how to spell it without you telling them, oh my god,
it’s so embarrassing (as if I had no idea what that was like).
You embrace your given
name more lately, along with sometimes even
my advice, and more parts of yourself.
You are learning to spot intrusive
thoughts that lie to you.
I will never forget to be
grateful you trusted the ones
who named you to
help you find courage to
stay
in the fight and
make a name for
yourself.
On the Impossible Occasion When Venerable Matsuo Bashō Composed Hokku for Anne Sexton in 1969 Massachusetts
Various lovers appear in
snow angels today
this is your day
sweet plum escape
awaits the bite
your mouth’s juices make
sweet tea for two
In year sixty nine
Matsuo Bashō poured these
haiku, Anne Sexton said,
sometimes I am a whale
at Sea World that sinks to
smother herself at the bottom,
her blood gases poison,
rolling over and over—
it is when I see my children
the family is shining,
it is television eating
us and our eyes are
so blue reflecting the
flags lowered with
with closing of the day.
The whale, taking
into consideration she
is about to die, has a choice
to surface, hears a storm—
her nerves are trembling.
In her blowhole, the click
tick-tock, click tick-tock
of spiny bones she thumbs
like a rolodex, a congregation
of fish epipleuralia—
a restlessness of breath in a
pocket with preacher’s sermons
stuffed inside of her—
but—a storm above!—
above the water
is it the happy trainer?
waiting with the fish?
he with the plum wine?
to drench the deep branches?
dredge minds to vacancy?
Oh Matsuo, my self’s self,
I am not happy with myself—
keep pouring these teas
into my limbs! —I suffer
to know what else to do,
I hurt to know how else to help,
my friends, I don’t lie! Since
when have I lied? I could lie if
I wanted but I am honest
at all times, I don’t lie! From
the removal of my blouse,
to the unzipping of my dress,
my skin is cream now
Matsuo Bashō you know
virgin as the plow
from field’s first summer
when there is no rainfall come
blossoms barely peek.
I will kiss you open
on both the knees,
my moths twin lips
old boy when there is
opportunity—we
are poets Bashō.
I cannot eat of Anne, live of her,
thrive of her, read of her,
I need a sensible companion,
and find no one in this world
to walk with—the globe
is a distracted yawn of yahoos
returning by blood, by metal,
by hard-hats to bedrooms
in New England towns.
I’ve looked for God, Matsuo,
how about you? How plumed,
ugly thistle-ogres appeared
to the poor, but I didn’t hear Him.
It seemed a terrific idea to stay
here for a time. I hold so tightly
to Him, but I’m not sure I hear
anything at all.
I crave safari on tsunami
when you are weary of Kyoto
and the shriveled wings
of the crows
saluting one million rebirths
from your chest on the mountain,
come to me.
