Confidence is a muse
who doesn’t always smile
for there are consequences.
She is not a fan of Bravado
who hides when his mask
begins to slip.
When Confidence steps
up to speak,
Brave applauds,
because of the tremor
he hears echoed
in his own voice,
But Weak seeks retribution
for the fear Confidence inflicts
when she bares her strong teeth.
or is there
birdsong again
swish of tire again
shake and tap of dog again
distant clink of neighbor’s screendoor light touch of cloth on chest slight hint of daybreak
again
Moving towards the end now,
who knows how many years
how many will be good ones,
how many spent enduring,
as mother did,
memories stripped
from the uniform of one’s life,
forgetting everything
and everyone you ever knew.
I am afraid of death.
But more frightening is that
slow leeching, Alzheimer’s
as the coal ash pond
poisoning the recollections of
loved ones, overwhelming
family football games,
those dinners with laughter,
and those with broken plates,
tracing tender spots
with a light finger,
and for my daughter,
her goofball dad become
guilt-inducing burden
to be visited briefly
once a week,
of having to hear herself say
to a friend some night
over tapas and cocktails
His death, when it comes,
will be a blessing,
and meaning it.
—*contains actual cuss words
So, imagine my delight
when she decided
to go back to church.
Reverend Musman,
the true disciple
of the Apostle Paul,
was a tough judge.
She had to find ways
around her favorite
litanies like Daddy’s
own improvisation
when he hit his thumb
with a hammer:
God-damn-mother-fuckin-
son-of-a-bitchin’-bastard.
She couldn’t even tell
guffawing daughters
to go to hell given
her new bout
with Methodism.
When we squealed at the sight
of Easter eggs crowned
with paper bunny ears,
all she could muster was
If you don’t like my bunny,
you can go to blazes.
Drummed so hard by laughter,
I still feel my ribs pound.
this poem begins with harvesting –
a small section only
a narrow strip
taken from the outer thigh,
the upper arm,
some area of the self
unlikely to be missed
that’s perfectly fine –
dead skin drifts from me all day
causing a fine domestic weather
the body is constantly editing itself
deleting, replacing,
sending out revisions
so have this beautiful square of my conceit
cut clean from its climate
transferred, secured with sutures,
to be observed for signs of rejection
cells begin exchanging
their private information
the capillaries make their red arguments
the common mammalian denominator:
keratinocytes
and the body’s ancient willingness
to mistake a foreign wound
for its own
some grafts fail, of course,
sometimes an invisible border patrol
works through the night,
identifying every cell
that cannot account for itself
the republic of the body shining its raw refusal
sometimes a stranger’s blood
enters the prosody and the graft responds
nerve endings sing along
the skin acquires sensation
the poem lives somewhere you cannot itch
meanwhile the donor site heals over
and a new layer forms –
thin,
shiny,
slightly numb
as if no piece of me
were out there
vascularized,
answering to a stranger’s blood.
...but epigraphs when they are not short, ruin the top
I capture a moment
Reading poetry tonight,
I am reminded of the shortest,
complete poem,
rising up fom silence,
temporarily lost:
I?
Why?
Think about that.
Feel those two words.
To answer those questions
can be personal,
philosophical,
religious,
but to have written them.
was the definition of a poet,
poetry,
humanity
for all time.
