Dedicated to Lisa Haneberg

They say that nothing rhymes with “orange.”

I submit the word “door hinge.”  The hinge of a door.

Orange.  Door hinge.

Is it cheating to use a compound word

to complete the rhyme?

I honestly don’t care.

Have you heard the rhymes

Bob Dylan comes up with?

I do not think I have ever seen

an orange door hinge.

I don’t think anyone has ever had

an orange door hinge.

Or else surely the misguided myth

that nothing rhymes with orange

could not have persisted this long.

Now we can anoint a true unrhyme-able word:

antidisestablishmentarianism.

If I could go back and whisper 
in the ear of my child self
I would say what my
daughters must know. 
You are enough,  you are pure
love in human form and you
were not wanted to satisfy 
some empty space, you were 
born because the world 
seeks your light. 
Illuminate those you touch 
and share your shimmering 
heart. Do not allow 
malevolent souls to douse
your radiance by taking 
your gifts selfishly. 
Love through action so that 
those held in shadows 
grow warm in your glow.
You are made of stardust,
you are eternal love. 

KW  6/27/23

The past visits like a stray cat
begging to be let in the house.
But all we can do
is give it some leftover stew
before we go back to sleep,
and dream about tomorrow.

I smell wildfire and smoked
wings as I venture through haze, its murky
hand reaching down to sting
my lungs and scratch my eyes.  It has already suffocated
the sun, its claws digging into her golden throat until she could only sputter
dull droplets that could barely penetrate the soot,
which veils what should be a sunny summer evening.  The smog lurks
atop roofs, less like morning fog that glides over dewy glens, 
more like sheer curtains that entomb hospital beds, sallow
fabric just thick enough to mask your grandma’s bleached 
skin, too thin to hide her gaunt cheeks.  
Although smoke prowls
above our heads, whispering tales of melted flesh, we ignore
the phantom and its prophecies
and stare straight ahead at shopping carts overflowing with frivolous
trinkets. 

I look down at the bin of watermelons tucked just past the sliding glass door.  
I dig through the stack until I find one whose skin is as green as Ontario’s cedars
last spring, as green as my backyard’s maples to distract
myself from the smog overhead, its promises of woes
to come.  The further I walk into fluorescent aisles, the more I forget
what I left behind.  

In fact, I don’t remember why I wrote this poem in the first place.

the smoke from up north
has came down and created
a thick haze
made things quiet 
and the air pungent

we drove around
with the windows down
feeling the summer breeze 
music without a title
playing

thinking of nothing but us

They’ll tell me my eyes are stunning

But I think they’re too small

They’ll tell me they aren’t mad at me

But I won’t sleep, thinking they are

They’ll tell me my poetry is good

But I think it’s mediocre

They’ll tell me my body is perfect

But all I see is the opposite

They’ll tell me I’m a sweetheart

But really they mean I’m too nice

They’ll tell me I’ll find someone one day

But they’ve been telling me that for years

They’ll tell me it gets better

But they never tell me how

They’ll tell me all these words

But they go in one ear and out the other

I don’t think I’ll ever be convinced,

I’ll just have to find my own words to believe

A lanky, whisky-brown brindled coon hound, sniffed train passengers secrets.

She got up from couch
walked across the room
adjusted the daughter
on the brand new 
mother-daughter floor lamp
I had assembled that day
then kissed me softly
as she left the room
This is how the muse
teases you
It kisses you
through her

I need a casserole recipe
for the infirm and the grieving. 
As a Southern female friend
I feel empty handed. 
Desserts aren’t enough 
to heal someone. 
Casseroles,
maybe soups,
can. 

I don’t know how to respond to emails about dead dogs
You probably don’t have to
But I’d like to be the kind of person who would, easily

I wish my best writing wasn’t unsent letters to all the people I love
It’s the only way I can journal most times, talking to other people in my my head
out loud, on a piece of paper, inside a computer
Some of them have heard my Words Are Imperfect Tools speech in person
but it’s also the best I got

Still, I won’t apologize for always writing the same thing in birthday cards
I like to put that the best is yet to come
Because it is, or I’d like it to be
But it’s not perfect because you can’t put it in an email back about a dead dog
(I’m sorry)