I am cereal in a bowl, big wicker chair, striped skin

I grieve, sigh, sixteen years, you finally picked up the phone

My house was visited by a peddler and a milkman

on the other line you must be driving, I’m in the back seat

I can hear my voice, heightened larynx as fine as a spider web

What is a boar bristle brush? What does a milkman say?

I pause and listen, static breath, I’m not sure what to say

you wouldn’t know me today, bones curved, wrapped in thick worn skin

concrete floors have popped my feet’s veins, years spinning my web

stitches zipping us, breath condensing on our secret phone

How much time has actually slipped since you left your seat?

I hear me now, asking more about the old peddler man

Boar bristle brushes from the peddler, milk from the milkman

brushes made of real hog hair, stiff as sharp wires, she would say

her vintage hands  grip the wheel, mine pick thread on the back seat

the distance scatters like beads vibrating beneath my skin

want to warn you, I can’t, knuckles white and squeezing the phone 

if only I could mention the bomb in your brain’s smart web

one call could never start to unravel my tangled web

Thank you, I whisper, you told the truth, you warned me of man

I hear my voice aging past puberty through tarnished phone

I press tighter to my ear, I found you, I don’t know what to say

afraid to lose the bleary air between our cheeks and skin

the clock tower chimes jingle bells, car ding, you leave your seat

No, stay with me and please don’t leave your Monte Carlo seat

I have more to tell you, light winks out of dew in your web

fourteen years crossover, two lives, shared blood beneath our skin 

your advice tattooed across my sternum ‘NEVER TRUST MAN’

I’m not really sure that it helped, bruised, don’t know what to say

I can’t tell you how they broke me through the glitch in our phones

I don’t want to wake without you singing prince on this phone

but we are drifting apart, sixteen years between our seats

I know I’m thirty, but I still really need you, I say

your voice cuts through, splintered by the storm, time’s frail wind-blown web

You are willow tree, tilting, but still stronger than man

Mom needed you too, three generations and our scarred skin

shreds of web linger, phone just a crashing of foam and waves

wicker seat now gone, legs now smooth, bruised, soft from trusting man

you say not to worry, I’m still there, soul beneath your skin

Sitting in the dining room of the house built by my great-grandfather I shared a meal with my cousins as we have so many times. Looking at my cousins, all of us older and somewhat wiser, and yet not enough for the world today. It is hard to be in that house, that room, and not feel the loss of their parents, our grandparents, how much more so must they feel that loss. Unspoken the knowledge that soon we will begin attending funerals for our generation. I parked in front of the barn that bears the message: Tack’s Muckview Farm est 1914. The knowledge that Isaac, Arthur, and Carl, all the Tack farmers are gone and the farm divided sits heavier in my stomach than the ice cream my cousin served for dessert

Lost twin, gaping wounds
Rippling decades after loss
Will they never heal

at one time i was the girl you were singing
lovers rock about
on the way to pick me up because i live across town

everything is so mundane
the wine glass on my mattress is calling my name
i lie on the side where you once did the same

i’m starting to forget how how you looked
and i don’t remember how it feels
when you’re at the edge of the bed with your pants at your heels

you liked to watch and
i liked to do whatever you’d want

One new pill

One old

Guarding the thermostat

Keeping him

From turning cold

remember that

day we met at a
diner in Jersey after
decades and we

both recited Ferlinghetti
by heart…I began…then you
echoed in perfect sync

“Johnny Nolan has a patch on his
ass kids chase him through screen door
summers…”

remember 
when I carried that

book around with me “A
Coney Island Of the Mind

Mind” everyday

It’s been a day and though nothing really terrible has happened I am drained.

I grab a small basket and step outside and into my garden, I know exactly what I need.

I go straight to the lemonbalm, picking a leaf and rubbing it in between my fingers letting that smell calm my frazzled nerves.

Just a few steps away and I am the mint patch. Just letting my hands move across the tops of the plants to release that aroma that instantly lifts my spirits.

I walk past the lavender and knowing I dont want it in my tea but I grab a leaf and bring it up to my nose, its floral scent one of my favorites.

I stop at the stevia plant, its the only herb in the garden that requires replanting every year and definetly worth the effort. One can never have enough sweetness in their life.

As I turn around looking to see if anything else is needed for my magical concoction I debate on whether I need to clip some wineberry leaves or maybe grab a few black raspberries to crush up. I decide sometimes less is more.

Now the kettle is whistling and put my herbs in the steeping basket pour in the water and wait. 

I pour the tea in a thrifted cup, the one I glued a glass ladybug onto because it makes me smile and I am ready. 

I close my eyes and take a sip. The stress of the day falling off of me and as the warm tea slides down my throat it also warms my soul.

Peace is not something that you can buy or even get from someone else. Peace is something you create, nurture and grow.

I took all the requisite lessons: 
dance from Miss Rosalind,
riding from Miss Wendy,
piano from Miss Margie.

When I went to summer camp,
an alligator named Lacoste
lounged on my shirts, 
while a pony waited for me at home.

My mother drove a Coupe de Ville,
new off the lot every three years,
had a diamond for every finger,
and enjoyed dining out five nights a week.

My father made more money,
as a livestock auctioneer,
than most lawyers in town,
despite always smelling of manure.

but…

that same mother popped pretty pills,
caroused with divorcees,
and flaunted her affair
with a cattleman named Eugene.

She did not play bridge
or make chicken casseroles
or attend church on Sunday.

and…

that father drank bourbon
out a pint bottle that he kept
in his breast pocket
like a 90-proof boutonniere.

He was never asked to serve as a deacon,
become a member of  the country club,
or join the local Republican party.

so…

though all my birthday cakes
were bakery made
and three tiers high

no one was there to share,
because parents won’t allow
their children to attend the party

when you are seen
as nothing more
than rich white trash.

            Only one
        
        tiger lily of those
        I planted below
        daffodils and tulips
        survived the freeze
        of winter, its ice.

        Twice,
        I have thanked the freeze
        for the skips
        it made in its go,
        for none of those,
———-
        perished, could 
        have been 
        more beautiful
        than the lone
        survivor.