triage under phalanx
Aelle under ail
Cerdic serves worms
burnt instead of buried
Mordred rejuvenates Aelle
and else nonpartisan
Daedalus can’t click heels thrice
no dice rewinding into Crete
anti summoning is obliteration
have to wonder if that’s what’s best

O how I love going

away. O how I love coming 

home. O how I love

my garden.

As good as gold:

“I want to live

I want to die”

I like the way you look down

And to right when you smile

to yourself

When I am dying

to know what is in your brain

I bought a papaya last night

I picked it out and knocked on its flesh

And heard a hollow sound

And it cost four dollars

And I carried it home in a sack on my back, carried it twelve blocks

I washed its skin and set it on a plain, clean towel.

When it dried I set it on a green cutting board and used my new kitchen knife for the first time to slice it lengthwise

For the first time I looked inside

And those black seeds and pink flesh

Were life: new and foreign and memorable.

My love wears his buttoned shirts like an actor, as though they make him brave

And were I steadfast as you I could glean a stage of my own

In winter you gave me your limelight

which is slatted morning light

Speech is rendered

And my speech will be

How you are brave and I am not

The storm drowns us all –
Dousing dreams, civil rights, peace
Witness our sinking  

Oh to live in a world free of memes and aphorisms
Oh to live in a world free of tropes and cliches

Yes, hurt people hurt people,
some anyway
but unhurt people hurt people
and hurt people get hurt

No, a sweet kiss doesn’t open every heart
Not everyone likes to be kissed
Or hugged
Or touched uninvited 

Being grateful is not a miracle
it doesn’t cure cancer
or fix bad relationships
or make nasty people nice

Oh to live in a world where people are free
to be who they are
in each moment without expectation
they be different

Raise her by the strings.

Head erect, close to yours,

and raise the mouth

at the edges. Skip the eyes –

no one will notice

if everyone’s smiling.

Raise your hand steady, point 

at the both of you with

that careful aim, pause 

for the click

put your arm around her

and wait for the recoil.

————–

(inspired, if that’s even the word, by a picture I saw of Gabby Petito and Brian Laundrie this morning)

I strode manfully into the princess’s bedchamber, where I expected to find her asleep for a century. I’d spent months imagining how grateful she’d be, awakened by my kiss. But I found her wide awake, a laptop on her knees, in a group chat with her girlfriends from all the neighboring kingdoms. She was lovely, as promised. I took off my visor and knelt at her feet but she didn’t look up. Minutes passed. My knees began to ache. Finally she glanced in my direction and said, not very politely, “What do you want?” “Princess,” I said, “I’ve come to save you. I’m here to take you away.” “In there,” she said, pointing toward a half-hidden door on the other side of the chamber. “I’ll be with you when I can.” I opened the door and stepped into the next room, which to my surprise was full of princes. They were rather lovely, too. One lifted his dimpled chin toward me with a shrug and said, “Welcome to the club.” He patted the seat of the chair next to his and said, “Come sit next to me.” He leaned in and whispered something in my ear that I couldn’t hear clearly over a rustling in the background, the sound of pages being turned turned in a book.  

They called him Bro’ Pops,
The folks of Crooked Tree, Belize
All day he rested on the veranda
Facing the lagoon
Watched for birds
Listened to the wind rippling the water
Was fed by the old cook
Who kept him company when she could
By day the women and young children of the village
Traced the dusty paths to visit him
By evening the older children came on horseback
He slept well    

Our PopPop, in his eighties
Took care of the mail
The cooking
The bills
My grandmother
Shuffling around the suburbs by himself
In and out of the car
To the bank
The pharmacy
The grocery
He joked of death by schlepping
Evenings on the balcony
He’d catch his breath
Scan the stars                                
But sleep eluded him      

A fine birthday scribe from New Brunswick
Decided the frosting to first lick
This went on with a smile
And after a while
He declared, “I have written a tanka!”

Keep from falling – dribble, shot, score, and pet
burro bareback balancing act barrage
straw, nips, opponate, and manuer dodge
played to support returned Vietnam Vet
Minor distraction moment to forget
comical efforts – the ball to dislodge
Keep from falling.

Emotional healing ousting regret
unlikely combinations rare hodge-podge
belonging and winning – again in charge
a way to say thanks, repaying our debt.
keep from falling.