pass yet another hill slice that feels like Christina’s World
in one of the inifite pockets by the highway
chapleted by summer oaks.
think
what am i doing what am i doing?
is the world only like this?
will dry fields and heaving-hot skies follow me everywhere?
why are small beauties so large?
And if I should find my way
to a land that bears no resemblance
to your face and the way it curved
like the moon high above, with a glow
that rests on my heart—to remember
your smile and how it met your eyes
not all at once but lopsided, loose
laughter milling through time—may I
wander to the edge of such a place
and find its name erased beneath
my footsteps, may there be no trace
of the path I took without you.
Ya gotta always have a “Fuck off” loaded in the barrel.
Ya hope ya never gotta use it,
but —
as the Bible says,
better to have a “Fuck off” and not need it, than to need a “Fuck off” and not have it.
But let’s be honest. Ya gonna need it.
Close my eyes
A moment to breathe
Feel the stillness
The oppositeness of aggressive opposition
Look up without opening my eyes
Look inside
Breathe
Appreciate the oasis, however brief
Grateful for the skirmishes that gave me these battle scars, inside and out
Thankful for the hard earned peace that comes in the midst of battle
Breathe
Open my eyes
Catch my breath
Engage
There are things I feel
before I am ready to say
so I write them as
a bird having roosted too early
on a night too young
a call maybe misheard
across miles of green hills
Then, the fullness of silence.
loves trans children, wants
them to become who they are,
puts her love into the hands
and skills of doctors and nurses.
The God I want to believe in
loves women, does not condemn
them to death to bring forth
the content of men’s seed.
The God I want to believe in
loves all life–trees, fireflies,
crabgrass, azaleas, chipmunks,
seagulls and indigo buntings.
So let me bless, in the name of
the God I want to believe in,
every mined out mountain top,
every bleached coral reef,
every God’s child sleeping
under the overpass, their worldy
goods in a shopping cart. Bless
those who do not have enough,
bless those who have a surplus,
large or small, and choose to share.
twilight beach wind takes us,
kites above the surf
we drift higher, beyond
reach of the information
superhighway, and for once
I’m relieved
Why am I so tired?
Is this normal
to wake with the fog and still feel scorched,
like a hillside after lightning?
How many times has the world burned?
How many fires does it take
to make us see this could be the last time
if we refuse to do anything different?
The trees can’t take
another summer like this
leaves curling,
crackling like paper in the wind,
or drenched and uprooting in softened soil.
No in-between.
One extreme to the next,
plummets and leaps.
Down in the hollow,
a creek stutters over stones
once slick with moss.
Now just memory and sediment.
The whip-poor-will sings less each year.
Cicadas rise, louder than before
not celebration, but warning.
Even the mountains hold their breath.
Is this how the world ends?
Not with thunder,
but with tired people ignoring
the fire climbing trees behind them.
