The Orionids call to me
I am awakened by Mars
Posing as Orion ‘s hat
In the corner of my window

I can lay in bed and watch, three AM
I stare for an hour
Betelgeuse wheels across the corner of the pane
And on to the west

Serius sparks in the trees
Still I’m searching to catch a glimpse of
Haley’s dirty tail eighty miles up
Nothing showing

I get up and go outside
Twenty nine degrees, four AM
My god the sky is brilliant
But no burning sand, not a mote

I wanted to prove

On a breezy rooftop patio,
a wiry, white-ponytailed man
with a guitar
plays everything:
Johnny Cash, John Lennon,
Neil Diamond. Skillful
callused fingers strum
as he sings, clear and true,
humble smile and so much soul
you know
this is what he loves to do.

My four-year-old munches
french fries, bounces
along to Sweet Caroline,
matches every word
in his high, soft lilt. He reaches
for my palm at Hands, touching hands,
like he always does.
The sun is butter
melting slow. It spreads
its toasty glow across the sky
so good, so good, so good.

start low slowly
        at the bottom
        for each chance.
flow and function
         lower on-
       slowly blood will form
         low too
       slowly over time.
may be worse
        but will
start low slowly

The trees reach up and out
like old men
with brooms clearing the veranda
at the Temple Of The Sky
trailing long silver hair.

Taller ones hold the clouds captive
while wind blows gently in small gusts
cobwebs from the end of their brooms.

It isn’t helpful to be called
an old soul by a man 
whose opinion matters more than any others,
when you’re just twenty-two 
and struggling beneath a load of insecurities
that are still in need of sorting and assessing
like cadaver organs at autopsy, 

to add the expectation 
of heightened perception
and be expected to walk a straight line,
to re-feed the meter.

You understand he meant well
and with the benefit of age 
his intention: to help you rise.

But, you weren’t built for lighter than air
reaching for optimistic clouds.

Your place is earthbound, under, 
among the grubs, 
the snake in the rat burrow,
the lost cat’s bones,
the nicked arrowhead,
running with the ravenous moles.

Big Mike said he’d teach you just like the old butchers
did in the 50s—before middle managers & quarterly
profits & when a wage earning man had enough time
to make cuts precisely & with honor. Soon the nightmares

rushed in. Keen-edged blades flashed & twirled
in your hands—out of control. You’d wake
like a shelter pup with the jitters, think you’d cut
into your own hand with a cimeter, or worse,

you’d sliced into another butcher, blood streaming
on the meat room floor. Like an ice skater repeating
basic 8’s, if you perfected your daily routine maybe
you could stop the repeating nightmares.

A voice inside drilled:

From a short loin, 
you get T- bone & tenderloin
strips; from the inside round:
cube steaks, stew meat. The top
butt gives shish kabob
chinks, ground sirloin; shoulder clod
yields arm roast & fine brisket.

Like an trusted uncle Big Mike intervened, shared
a secret ritual passed through generations
he called putting the knives to sleep. On the kitchen
counter you’d practice & whisper to yourself:

Thank you boning knife, cleaver, chicken
cutter, skinner.  I fold you one
by one, cotton apron clean
& soft. No stains & always
tuck the bottom in. Next, fold
the right side, then the left

& into the apron like a jellyroll 
you’d roll up the knives tightly
& methodically & with a double-knot
tie the long strings around the bundle.

You asked the knives to settle down, beseeched
the blazing edges to stay out of your dreams & before
bed you offered thanks to everything damn little thing
you could think of & finally the nightmares stopped.

some days I write love poems
and pretend they aren’t
fairytales.
I write about a future
that I pray is
still waiting for me.
I trick myself into holding on
just a little while longer.

second mother’s day

second mother’s day
i made brunch, only to mourn
one seat left empty.

my grief sisters said
year two is worse than the first.
now i know it’s true.

your sister bought me
a vase of roses. like you
they died much too soon.

You love listening to Zach Bryan

Cause you think he would understand ya

We look at the stars above us and sing A cappella

laughing when we mess up

Blowing smoke rings to the stars

In the morning you are gone and I wonder why God gives me glimpse of people I need but will never have.

A craving taste of friendship, I miss ya bad.

Now I’m driving alone to a place I don’t want to go, the radio is screaming this kid knows what it means to stay leaving.

Alone and chasing all those memories I don’t remember making

I sing along to this sad song

You told me it was your favorite.