Hell is a table by the window,
where the AC’s broke and the sun
bleeds syrup on orange-oiled wood.

He orders Uncle Herschel’s Favorite Breakfast.
Who eats a hamburg steak before 10:30,
medium eggs like jelly moons,
torched bacon brittle as old bones.

She eats grits—six steaming spoonfuls.
Thinks, stay.

Spring comes when Persephone slips out back
to smoke in the cramped employee bathroom,
by the dumpsters. She whispers dandelions
through asphalt. Just one drag—
Til Hades himself hollers from the kitchen door,
“Hon! Table seven needs some pomegranate tea.”
She grinds the blossom under her non-slip sole.

So what if the sky’s aching blue?
For months, the coffee’s kept fresh.
The music–not dryad, but flesh
against hot grease. Her & her lover.

Her mama searches every interstate exit
as the old men in checkered plaid and A-shirts
stare at cold coffee and weep
for the waitress. She stalks paper menu,
wet with maple and the steam
of something boiling.

On months the ice cubes stay whole,
Persephone calls from the pay phone
outside. Demeter comes in her van.
They leave with next shift on napkin,
six biscuits cradled in warm wax paper—
like a stolen kiss.

The attention span of a goldfish is 11 seconds according to The Coffee News. Other sources say 9. Far older sources suggest 3. I’m neither sure how the attention span of a goldfish is measured nor how the measurement ranges from 3-11, but clearly the goldfish is getting smarter. The attention span of humans has recently been compared to that of a goldfish. This research must be very complicated; though, to be honest, my news feed provides time-to-read information at the end of every article, e.g.., 3 min, suggesting a short attention span indeed, though much larger than that of a goldfish. I doubt the average goldfish could read even the shortest of these articles.

a hand outstretched and ignored / bare skin against the floor of a treehouse / sunlight through the holes of dead November leaves / your rain jacket / an arm around my shoulders as I cross the road / a tap on the shoulder / standing on my tip toes to see / forest fires / Halloween rain / all the meals I didn’t eat / sitting alone in someone’s else’s apartment / again / 

I.

not yet stiff

wings tucked

beak still clean

the weight of air

still shaped the body

each feather recalling

its intended task

bloodless

the sudden absence of angle

a hunter undone

by speed not its own

a body mistaken for refuse

until the eye caught talon

rust-band crown

black-barred back

the field remembered

what silence meant

only symmetry

and the thin line

between strike and sky

II.

wind lifting

not yet a name

only form

the field below

creased like thought

a seam of mouse

a thread of scent

breath inside the breastbone

held like a knife

each muscle

a question

unanswered

until now

then

tilt

fold

the world narrowing

to one sharp line

speed her only language

and silence

its echo

no witness

but the sky

and the shadow

brief as permission

I just want to sleep.

today
tomorrow
next week
next month
next year.

I have no FOMO.
Instead I have FOA.

Fear Of Attending.

Louise:

A collective of women assumed 
an adventure of choice
for all seasons and engaged in writing
 and sharing their wisdom
as they turned, turned, turned
in the sun, in the cover of the moon,
in their silken robes with swirls of satin
ribbons blowing around them, like the
cascading myrtle swaying
from the ancient portico
that stood outside their meeting room,
a humble reminder of the peace
they craved like sweet honey on
warm bread.
Heads covered in golden saffron dyed scarves
they assembled in secret, speaking in whispers
that floated across the universe.  The women
sat in a circle on a dirt floor and wrote the
Book of Ecclesiastes.
Grace etched out the words that flowed from
caring hands and elegant minds onto
perfectly bespoken papyrus, in a
realization of changing times
that challenged the olive tree to flower,
the red-tailed hawk to soar above
transcendental echoes. They crafted
their words with ambivalent meanings,
perpetual motion, wiser than Solomon.
When finished the women knew
it was time to dance under the
wide brimmed cedar.

tucked into a used copy
of Elizabeth Strout’s novel
“Anything is Possible”

The previous owner of the book
left a notecard stuck in the middle
of the story, as if

they they gave up on finishing—
and on the card, in red ballpoint
loopy cursive:

1. What’s the plan?
2. What’s the prognosis?
3. Will heart recover?

Above the list, an illustration
of a blue butterfly
alongside a striped bee on a daisy

down below, beneath the word “recover”
a tiny watercolor of a golden-breasted
Evening Grosbeck

whose numbers have plummeted
by 92 percent since 1970.
Will heart recover?

There is a red apple,
hanging low
and alone
on a naked branch 
of an aged, diseased
William’s Pride Apple tree.

From the porch 
it looks perfect,
tempting me to walk
in flip flops,
across the overgrown 
tick and chigger
infested lawn.

Robin eats a juicy, fat worm in the grass
Red shouldered hawk, kee-aahs as it circles above
A  brown haired child laughs while swining
Life being what it is, unaware

Of danger lurking Fascism creeping,
Creeping, creeping ever closer
While humans pretend
Pretend, pretend
Until the knocking At the door