I caught a mouse yesterday.
It was one of those
round-bellied,
big-eared ones.
Fresh from the field.
It must have envied
our monotonous,
LED-lit hall, 9-5 world.

The air rushed from my lungs
in a slight gasp
as it scampered
around the corner
of our office basement.
My package would have to wait.

I chased it into a dark room
and swung the door shut,
heart beating in my ears.
Its little nose sniffed
under the door, 
checking if I was still there.

Oh no, you don’t, I said,
blocking the inch-high gap
with a chair leg,
a trash can,
three signage stands,
two markers,
and a pair of scissors jammed
into the last slot.

I whipped out my phone
and called the front desk.
Not again, she told me
with a sigh of amusement.
We only banished a snake
just this morning.

What do you get 
when an employee,
a secretary,
and a maintenance man
open the door
to a makeshift mouse cage?
Pure chaos, of course.

One held a broom, 
the other – a dustpan.
And me?
Well, the best help
I could offer was
an upturned office bin.

Good thinking on my part,
I thought shortly
after the incident.
As my bin proved
the hero when
the little critter
dashed away from the broom,
jumped over the dustpan,
and into a room
across the hall.

He thought he was swift.
He thought he was smart.
He thought he could hide
in a wedge between walls.
But there I was,
a heroic mass of
grit teeth
and coiled limbs,
upturned bin raised
high above my head.

He sensed the danger.
He thought 
he could chance
an escape. 
But I was much
faster, much smarter
as well.

And I lunged forward
with my bin and a
ferocious yell.
With a defiant squeak,
the little guy
succumbed to his fate.

And the maintenance man
pinched his tail
sticking out
from under the bin.
He tossed away
the plastic
and snatched 
that mouse up
in his fist.

No curious critters
were harmed
in this stunt.
The little field mouse
must have had
quite the tail
to tell his buddies
when he scurried home.

And my day
in the office
made me wonder
if I ought to
give field-living
a try. Don’t they
always say
that the grass
is greener
on the other side?

Pressure builds.

The more you speak.

My head hurts.

Silence suits you better.

I sit in linen shorts and earthen shoes banging wood building outlines

Perimeters

controlled barriers that imitate neatness but
            are in anthropocene DNA now

industrialized robots that we are

branwashing we don’t realize until

we become disabled and

                                    realize we were only wanted in society for bodies we
no longer have

You’d think women would empathize

broken bodies were only commodities before they broke

and only societal dross now

as you tell me I who cannot travel more than five miles without three months’ notice and who cannot process food or know when I can go outside, need to be at a test to prove what all the doctors have told you, in eight days

Prove /again/ you are unable to work due to your disability

because work is all we are here for

I give up wondering if you will pass by and be confused or think checkmate when you see me walking

lifting sitting bending

because I can’t usually do any of those things

but you only see me when im out

not the other 97% of time when im saving up for those movements

not the other time when im charting thirty-seven tabs of medical information to see if it’s safe for me to go out yet

or if I will injure myself

collagen-free being that I am

we teach competiton to children

        sports 

                    as though collaboration cannot be taught
without a loser at the end

                    without violence

without sprained knees and concussions

    a culture of war

a culture of forcing movement outside relation with the earth

a culture of new expensive slavery we justify by paying the enslaved

but not thinking about the
                        violence inherent in forcing         someone to eat sleep exercise
on a bllionaire’s schedule

I hate crape myrtle less with this fir box around it

double medicated today

ninety degrees at least

my uncooling body sweats for the first time

in a decade

sun beats down on the pink and white stripes of my belly and back

I turn in the screws. One, two four, six, twelve, twenty-three

I don’t know where the twenty-fourth is

I hurt my shoulders, turning the screwdriver

turning

turning

to hem in this ugly plant

enough Whiteness in me to want to own this

not enough to cut it down
        enough to hurt myself doing it

now a tidy box with myrtle spilling out of it

to be filled with random plants

wildflowers

the native child in me fighting always with the White

easy to forget in this nazi town that other colors imperialize too

but they are not who im responsible to atone for being

Garden is the ultimate wondering place of control,
            of defining the natural and
                            the                                 good.

I stll hear master gardeners say “weed” as though it’s a real concept, rather than simply a judgmental misnomer for a plant whose purpose you are too ignorant to know yet.

My yard helpers cut mimosas without asking

                                                                                    assuming I want them cut

                                                                                                                                     they grow instantly here

like drunken bunnies

and grow their pink fans and feather fronds desperate to sell burlesque tickets in my backyard

the boys don’t know mimosas are useful for mood disorders, male things, and other needs

just like burleque and fandances are

still there is enough whiteness in me to be happier finishing the screwing together of these boards

pouring with sweat

penning in this ugly plant into a managed fir box in the yard

than to leave them randomly with the lie of the old Scott’s grass around it

                After Sappho

Pearls, emeralds, carnelian, tourmaline—

I weight ears with green bits
of life, slip an artist stone
of reddish brown onto a finger, tuck
a slice of violet close to my heart,
where fatigue threatens.

A pearl engagement ring hangs
from a golden chain, gently worn—
I gather my histories like blooms.

Pearls, emeralds, carnelian, tourmaline—

Invitations to the Muse, will she answer
a silent lyre? What if I add an amethyst
charm from the hills of Lesbos?

Or should I simply
pick up my pen
and begin?

ink, papyrus, time, patience

(for Jamie)  

My world went silent, but I saw their mouths – frozen Os.  

Yanked up by my armpits, I swung through the house,
a pendulum in Mama’s hands.  

She slung me into the tub; the water swirled pink.  

My aunt’s thigh, still a living thing, pulsated in my hair.

Hell no!
Not when the ramp is 20 feet from the entrance
No rails on stairways
6 inch curbs to negotiate
Nonhandicapped hogging the handicap stall
when other stalls have no grab bars or 
commodes are too low for weak quads
Those living it feel it making some just 
stay home!

she is water, scale, mirror, curve
looking into looking

he is bellows, staff, road,
box on his back for keeping

dog is flame, nip at the heel of the
masterless man

the whole gambit is there
in the psalter’s margin

Never met Uncle Bill

Who died in WWII

Flying a B-26 Marauder

His crew tried and true

All the fine young men

Who passed in that war

They served the cause for freedom

Its tyranny we abhor

Let’s us stop by that party tent, the one being
arranged down by the shoreline, its wooden  
spikes splitting the summer grass grown by
gardeners who live in tiny, borrowed houses
and do not expect recognition or praise after
repairing the already old clippers for
one more season of topiary clipping.

Can you hear the singing waves laughing as
the shells of crustaceans,
living fine lives yesterday, as
lobster, crab, and shrimp are tossed into
scrap bins and compost piles without worry?  

We will say,’ excuse me, our dog is lost,’ and pretend
to understand the long-weekend appeal of  
lounging in the waiting garden chairs, their woven  
rest pressing into pale flesh exposed by our lifted slips.
With manicured daydreams freshly stained by marigold juice,
we can wave polite farewells to another season
of party-hopping hellos.

-In response to Garden Chairs (Barcelona, 1929), a photograph by Josef Albers, on display in the Guggenheim Museum’s digital collection.