The forest holds its breath, a symphony of rustling leaves and snapping twigs. Fear here is primal, a bear’s roar in the night, a flash of claws. But the city’s fear is a different beast. It slithers in a smile that doesn’t meet the eyes, a footstep too close behind.

a list of questions this morning
they seem to never end  thought and question
is this enough to be called  alive
what if there is something behind first thought
what if the reaction were not the real story  just
a seasoned reaction  learned over time  taught
is it pure physical to stay horizontal  inclined
toward calculating  judging  labeling      hating
there’s more beyond this plane of the body

the gift has been given

Before the car pulled up, yanked away
my identity, 07 Chevrolet 
placed it there in the unused ashtray
swimming in the lightning storm that day
arms out eagle wide, it would be my last,
last free day before ‘me’ decayed

thirteen years old, branded, leveled, sold
their laundress teen, their secrets I’d fold
become a number, my cell patrolled
rewarded when I help lock the deadbolt
to my own damn cage, government issued
They count cents, commissaries they stole

To buy Dodge Chargers and Kay’s jewelry 
while they scrub my skin raw, rebrand me
going from girl to state property
they said that it wasn’t too heavy
the weight of turning fourteen without your mom
Shut your mouth, let ‘em get ya shiny

What he learned of success — don’t look for it, aim & mis, better yet, don’t
aim at all – came from concentration
camps;
here he honed his therapy watching his patients
die,
wondering if he’d see his wife again
(he didn’t),
weakened by forced
marches (or
perhaps growing
stronger),
and the ashes of souls
in the
air
turned to tears never
cried;
he dissected why the dying live 
and learned to ask his future patients
why not just off themselves
already knowing the answer,
that in the darkest holes,
meaning wears
many
disguises. 

when sitting crisscross applesauce
considering all the ways I could hold
every hand on earth and sing
campfire songs like mantras,
not muttered but chanted
like soccer fight songs—forgive
the crudity of “fight”—soccer love songs,
earth passion songs,
existence orgiastic songs sung
in a human net of joy around the planet.

This is the trap.

Strive instead for a moment of calm,
a single soothed infant, one
family dinner without scathing gossip.
The dream comes after
a million short steps,
a billon deep counted breaths.

Don’t be reserved.
Dig in.
Wrap a tiny embryo of thought or feeling in words
Or paint
Or sketches
Or collage.
Coat it with abstraction.
Don’t be afraid to cake your nails in dirt
Or let water run down your cheeks
Or to hold the heaviness and delicacy in your palm.
Plant it.
Move it out into the light.
Inhale. Exhale.
Wait.
You do not need a rake or a shovel or a trowel
Or a wheelbarrow or shears.
Let it flow through your fingertips.
For there is no pain
or awkwardness
or beauty
Or love
Or hope
Or thought
That can’t take root and grow lush.

Marta made the fudge,
she had done for years,
the bakery sold out every day,
those who missed out left in tears

Local news had done reports,
the paper had several spreads,
Marta, the town celebrity,
her fudge outsold all breads

Marta learned at mother’s side,
the recipe her Gran’s,
she made the fudge all alone,
away from prying eyes and fans

Then Becky join the bakery staff,
claiming she was the best,
Becky, barely nineteen, thought
she knew more than the rest

I have my own recipe, Becky said,
It’s totally delicious–wait and see
Marta wouldn’t let her near her, said
Get the hell away from me

Next day, Becky arrived,
with a large foil-covered plate,
Everybody–come try my fudge–
you’ll love it–I can’t wait!

The staff each took one piece,
oohed and aahed with each bite,
but Marta stood away from them,
full of venom, hate, and spite

Come on, Marta–just one bite–
you’ll like it if you try,
but Marta grabbed her sharpest knife,
stabbed Becky in the eye

Awake  
at 4:08am
in a sweat
peer around to find

everything 
the same
but entirely different
fully familiar, fully foreign

dawn 
only illuminates
the strange sameness
house, but not home

oxygen
tar thick 
each pregnant breath
harder than the last

gravity
force fortified 
bones become osmium
flesh hangs like fruit  

mirrors
now microscopes
magnify every flaw
at a cellular level

language
garbled gibberish
each unintelligible word 
wrapped tight in cellophane 

inhabitants
seemingly human 
look through me
ambivalent to my presence 

alone
craving connection
desperate but defiant
refusing to reach first

somehow
still surviving
after 1,095 days
on this inhospitable planet

dreaming
every hour
of my return
to the brilliant before.

I’m itchy from head to ankle
rubbing across, up and down.
Red raised hard bumps 
rise in weird places:
left side of forehead,
upper back below neck
above shoulder blade,
under arms on triceps,
top of a vein at bottom of hand,
left forearm, edge of elbow
along side of inner right calf.

Could one broken winged
mosquito buried deep 
in bedding cause all this
damage and discomfort? 
Rest in peace dead mosquito.
Guess I’ll soon find out.

what you think, sitting
on my sofa, facing same direction  

in my front room, wonder
if you notice detail, composition  

color, texture, juxtaposition
or maybe you merely breathe  

it all in, already familiar, comfortable
here, where you’ve often perched  

by my side, sifting through lines
of poems and drying my tears  

just like I know exactly
what flowers to plant, which weeds  

to pull in your garden, pruning
Mother’s roses as if they were  

my own, grateful to have known
enough to porch sit with her,  

seeking wisdom from a woman
who raised three children  

as my one (and lonely) cuts
front lawn every week  

(you prompt your own
to pay what I instruct my own  

to refuse) because you taught
me what a child feels  

in response to affection my mother
refused, unchartered territory—  

sincere appreciation, not obligation
when merely returning care given  

in childhood, privilege to provide
home, enjoying puzzles purposefully

solved, each piece considered,
much like the quilts stitched  

to cover shoulders of your own
sons they still cherish, perhaps  

burying in to sniff deeply scent
of maternal affection I pray  

my son seeks in San Marzanos
simmering in garlic and basil,  

or maybe paprika and bourbon,
acquired taste from being raised  

in same state you reared your family
I’m honored to know