porch underfoot as skies

Asked if he loved me
He paused, weighting his answer 
I took that as ‘No’

This piece usually has a harmonica accompaniment:

When I was a kid, every once in a while
We used to go, back to the lake

A place Daddy Jess, Great Grand Dad made
Frank Roat and Uncle Jack, hit a nail or two

Ma and Pa would drive, nonstop to Michigan
Gas station ding-ding, it’s a Bireley’s break

Sometime in late summer, whole family’d arrive
Aunt Katherine, Auntie Grete, and Uncle Harold

We’d have big feasts on the lawn by the lake
Tossin’ cobs over shoulder, for a squirrel to enjoy

No time to be bored with Aunt Geri around
Catchin’ snappin’ turtles, playin’ Chinese Checkers

Evenin’ rolls ‘round, Kate’s comin’ on down
Pile in the pontoon, for a sunset cruise

Floatin’ on the Lake lookin’ over the side
Darkness abounds, but light from above

We had such family, all gathered around
Somethin’ like goin’ to Court Street Church

When I was a kid, every once in a while
I used to go, back to the Lake

But we don’t go back there no more.

Pregame conversations with my father
By taking zoloft and nameless medicine
So I can fib my way through another night

You must believe that I am brainless
But I say once again that “I’m tired”
It’s not lying if I’m tired of these tears

Pregame conversations with my father
By playing into the designed perfect daughter
Spend hours pondering unfinished sentences

This heat wave feels familiar.

I’ve endured plenty of summers like this,
but this one strikes a resemblance, 
Like an enemy waiting for me to drop.
I wake up already exhausted.

The air is heavy.
The sky refuses to break.
Everything feels harder than it should.
Even breathing seems like work.

The sun bears down from above
the same way responsibility does.

Bills.
Expectations.
Unanswered prayers.
The weight of being needed
by people who have no idea
how tired you are.

Every direction feels hot.
Pressure from every angle.
Pressure from the version of myself
I know I should be by now.

No shade.
No relief.
Just another day
of carrying what must be carried.

And the strange thing about heat
is that eventually it stops feeling hot.

You adapt.
Though it doesn’t hurts any less,
It’s just that suffering has a way
of becoming normal.

You stop asking when the rain is coming.
You stop checking the forecast.
You just keep moving.
One foot followed by the other.

Waiting.
Hoping.
Trusting

I know somewhere beyond
this endless stretch of cloudless sky,
something is gathering.
Because every drought eventually ends.

Every field that cracks beneath the sun
is still capable of growing again.
Maybe that’s the lesson
hidden inside this unbearable weather:

Resilience isn’t proven
when conditions are favorable.
It’s proven when the heat won’t let up,
when the pressure keeps mounting,
when every part of you wants relief,

and yet somehow…

you keep going anyway.

                I started skydiving
                because I loved the idea
                of freedom.
                        -Felix Baumgartner

plunging and plummeting…
tumbling and dropping…

i quite like
having my feet
on the ground

a safe soft earth
can’t shatter
my bones
if i never dare
to fly

descending tailspin
nosedive crashing

but a safe soft earth
is also one
that doesn’t turn 

i can be okay with that
until i’m not

stumbling slipping tripping
toppling flopping plopping

it’s easy to deflect
when she’s a bartender
who doesn’t date her customers
or when i meet her at the time clock
and she doesn’t go out with coworkers

but what about the girl
who is neither of those things

slumping keeling
crumpling

she exposes
a deeper level
of damage
yet unprocessed 

a new way to fall

depleting decaying degrading
devalued deteriorated regressed

a trauma of rejection
that still entraps

the emptiness within
expanding infinitely
i’m adrift
in my own cosmos

where did the earth go
safe soft earth

diminishing decreasing declining

What a privilege to sit in
a library & read about Black Americans
my peoples experience
while the border closes in
Gaza & things keep getting worse
because of this addiction
we have to hate & violence

What a privilege to have
access to books when a family
of daughters in Palestine dream
of owning their own books

What a privilege & also what
a reality to know you aren’t
safe either, sitting there in a mask
blessed with a mild chronic pain day
seeing everyone around you unmasked
believing the lie that this
pandemic is over

i click the box to pay a bill
i click the box to make one
slide and press to show i’m here
a human with its skin on

i click so i can interact
click every single box
i click a rhythm up and down
like i’m from camazotz

the hand of time spins round the clock 
distracting in her ticking
the finger moves and having clicked 
moves on and keeps on clicking

Master of puzzles:
She’ll spend hours examining the pieces,
Fitting them together in her mind.
She sees every gear,
Knows every part like they’re extensions of her body.
A conductor of metal and energy
Envisioning solutions nigh impossible.
She works into the odd hours of the night and wee hours of the dawn,
Fueled by caffeine and imagination:
For the problems of the waking are mended by her designs,
While those of the sleeping can neither be fixed nor killed.

They’ll dowse 
for a viable vein,
divining rods sharp 
and butterfly-small,
for any good fortune,
to tap the dread, honey-
slow, watch it well, flick
and coax the last lingering 
red blessing into a test vial.