American Sentence CII
Woman tucked bank notes promised to Unwed Mothers Home in her pocket.
From our car we see a woman walking down
the gray sidewalk, red-light glow her own
spotlight as we wait for it to change.
We’re late for a show downtown.
It’s winter, stone blue twilight.
She holds a cardboard sign
from this distance we can’t
or won’t read.
When Medusa was raped in Athena’s temple,
the goddess punished the mortal woman,
knotting her hair with vipers, condemning her
to watch the world through lowered lashes.
The gods knew how to punish,
but not as well as we do.
The woman on the sidewalk moves in peripheral.
Lifts her face toward a window, then down.
Moves to the next car. Looks up, looks down.
Eyes slip from her like black ice, as if
a glance from her would turn us to stone.
As if we are not already.
She pauses then at the car in front of us.
I see a car seat, little legs kicking in the dark.
A small hand bounces in a wave, and something
thaws in the night air. The woman gasps, great yawning
O and the corners of her mouth lifting at the sight
of the child, eyes wide, held in another’s
joy of beholding, and being beheld.
The 5 second rule applies.
You just write it and if it falls on the floor,
it’s safe to eat if you pick it up
within 5 seconds.
Yesterday’s trash thrown out the car window
makes the best of stone soup
warms your belly on cold winter days
but gives you diarrhea the next morning.
Words fall into the current.
They skip against the surface tension
like a comet bouncing off our atmosphere,
but eventually sink like stones.
If you pick them up within five seconds,
they’re safe to swallow.
And rhymes are last year’s fad
now passé like the Barbie pink dress
made from shiny stretch fabric
and memory foam.
The editor promised you a spot
at the fold of the saddleback,
but he must have forgotten
and when you burned the mag,
the flames turned blue and green and orange.
Five seconds or not,
don’t pick that one up
and eat it.
I’ve been thinking of the old days, at the river bed
With many people walking here, every night and day
As I sit and wait my turn, next to our favorite spot
I’ll be thinking of you, on a rainy day
I remembered when we laughed and played, at the river bed
Splashing and having lots of fun, saying sweet little names
Years and years I would remeber all the things we did
Then you were taken away, on a rainy day
I’ve been sitting here lots of days, at the riverbed
Staring off into space, with you in my head
Thinking about all the fun, when I come your way
But until that day, I’ll just sit and wait
And I’ll be thinking of you, on a rainy day
Despite an envious flood of light
coming from every direction,
the metal and glass that greet you still seem
poised to drink
the vigor from your hands
as you reach for companionship alone
across a space not meant
for man to linger long.
The clouds that pass
and deposit their shadows
serve only to remind you
that more exists outside this glass
that you have tied yourself to
without expectations.
Greenhouses contain,
but they cannot contribute,
cut off and bridging the places
where natural systems work
toward unnatural goals,
lambent only
with what purpose you can find
buried in the green,
in seedling, sepal, or stem.
A single season can
deliver or destroy
the harvest you have sought
to break yourself free,
and this plant in your hands
might be the stock needed
to seed your prospects for good.
The great grower knows
that things can grow even
in the greenhouse darkened
by covering our own panes
as long as a grain of strength remains
even desiccated and dark.
You become the greenhouse
whenever you feel ready
to allow yourself to grow again, too.
The poems are quieter now—
the words more whispered
than written, the wind streaming
into the open car windows as
Nirvana plays and your Subaru races
down Baxter Avenue and back to my place.
The passenger seat of his car
now feels like home.
I vow never to forget this moment,
sitting in your car watching the sunset
over the middle school football fields
too scared to look you in the eye
yet praying for the space between us
to no longer be big enough for Jesus.
A child kneads the dough, pressing love into every fold,
Each rises to a quiet devotion.
A grandmother’s hand moves through theirs—
Guiding, shaping, whispering the old ways.
The weight of tradition rests in a child’s palm,
Flour-dusted and warm, like a story retold.
They do not need to ask how to make bread—
They remember the way their loved ones showed.
The gray clouds outside
make my room feel
so dark and comfy.
Even though the dog is barking
to be let out,
I just want to lay here
and be nothing.
There is a comforting irony
in seeing life in the cemetery
Live flowers planted to honor those gone
Bunnies in the grass and beaten gravel path
People cross through
Day in, day out
Considering mostly the dead
Sometimes contemplating their
very own existence
Because there is a beauty in the life
of the cemetery
