Beautiful dreamer, head in the clouds,
soon waking to take on the worst
the world can throw into wards
and lockdown, wounded birds
in padded cages.

Dressed an angelic hue, 
toaster waffle edges browned,
a daub of blush, smear of gloss,
now you’re ready to be the man,
a role for which we never planned.

Knowing the sixteen ways to disable 
and diffuse, only having to use 
one or two to keep me working 
the vacuum to get at the cat
hair beneath the significant chair,
so different from retail you,
the one before this second calling.

Bravely, bravely you plow ahead
into those chaotic rooms
while I consider window streaks,
the rising cost
of store bought tomatoes,
left behind to ponder
what’s come over you,
and what, my love, will become of us.

A 100 yards down the fairway a plateau rises.
    `Yellow flag waves from the top.  We see something nearby.

Not a clamor of freshly fallen seagrape leaves,
    nor a frenzy of lime slices sliding into a cold drink,
        no tumult of leftover spinach from yesterday’s lunch.
We realize a moving assembly of birds feast and pray,
    gather to sip from cart path puddles.

Each in an emerald tunic, small beige hood,
    accented by cerulean
        tail feathers like an almost hidden cincture
            touches the ground.

We recognize this sacred order near our game.  
    Peaceful, they remain oblivious to flying golf balls,
        mowing machines,
            curses and missed putts.

Tasting one of the cherries I’ve brought
from the market this morning,
grandma squints and says,
I thought they didn’t make summers like that
anymore.
Remember our old cherry tree?
Remember the old willow
they had to cut down – it was old and dry,
and a hazard during lightning season.
Remember how your friend cried her eyes out –
what was her name? She cried for the old willow.
Yeah, I had forgotten about that. I think
she works in finance now.
The pits pile up –
a small mountain range
for the ants.
By dusk my mouth is red
and the kitchen looks like
a minor crime scene
like they hired Tarantino to do the credits
of this sequel
lined up in the jars.
We’re one lid short.
Outside,
the air above the roof
crackles with static.

nearly toppling backwards
craning for songbirds
in the canopy

Sitting in the back
of our ‘85 Nissan Sentra,
the vinyl seats combine with the sweat
pooling under my thighs,
creating an unnatural adhesive
that threatens to peel the skin
from my body if I dare to move.

Did that car have AC?
I only remember the windows
always being open, always cracked,
even in winter, for his cigarettes.
The smoke wafts back,
burning my nose, my eyes.
He was never allowed to smoke
inside the house.
A car is technically outside the house.

I feign burns;
claiming the ashy embers
are making their way to me.
And could he please stop now?
Sometimes he would,
rolling the window up,
frustration and annoyance in each crank
of the handle till the window is closed,
thick silence replacing the smoke.

“Is that better?”

The answer burns like sulfur,
like a struck match.

Another fight, another collision of wills.
Another time when my preferences are selfish,
but his are not.
Another time when I’m unreasonable,
but he is not.
She always says we’re too much alike,
and he agrees,
yet somehow the him in me
is always worse
than the him in himself.

The worst part of every fight is his apology.

“I love you.”

I nod and avert my eyes.

“And you love me, right?”

The question sets my insides aflame,
filling my lungs with thick, hot smoke,
suffocating me till I can’t answer,
even if I want to.
And I don’t want to.

One day, that same Nissan Sentra
starts rolling down the driveway.
He jumps into the driver’s seat,
door half open, half closed.
Body half in, half out.
Pumping the brakes
till he and the car go
over the creek bank.
I scream like I care.
I don’t mean to.
I don’t mean to care.

“That scared you, huh?”

The answer is a crucible.
I am a crucible.
I can withstand the heat.

Every question is a demand.
Some answers burn like fire,
smoldering inside your chest.
To speak them is to risk a mouthful of flames;
scorching the earth that stands between.
One day, I’ll open my mouth
and let the whole thing burn.

Gazing into the enchanting night sky
I’ll sometimes see Venus and Mars
along with thousands of shining stars
and ponder when and where and why.

A Visit With Uncle Sam

Just the other day I pondered our poor ol’ Uncle Sam,

I thought I’d like to chat him up and maybe share a dram,

And kindly inquire as to how he’s a makin’ out,

I’ve always known him to be hale and hearty, smart and strong and stout.

But kindly seems like here lately, he’s been punyin’ around,

And I wondered if maybe his kin folks might not be a gettin’ him down.

I thought I might like to visit, and to talk with him a spell,

Just to see how he’s a doin’ and to see what he might tell.

Well, he says, “It’s good to see you! Come on in and set a spell.

Sure, my Constitutions healthy, but I don’t rightly feel too well.

It’s my nieces and my nephews, why, you know just how they are,

There ain’t nothin’ ever suits ‘em but to argue round and spar.

They’ve worked up a rift between ‘em, and they’ve got it deep and wide,

I’d like to get ‘em back together, Lord knows how I’ve tried.

But the ones they’ve set to represent, are sure the dullest in the lot,

I can’t quite make it out why they thinks that’s the best they’ve got.

But you know, they believe it and they send them back again and again,

And wonder why nothin’ ever changes, with not one capable in ten.

Most are there to pad their pockets when they go to Washington to lurk,

And they’ll do and say damn near anything just so they don’t have to work.

They’ll keep that job ’til they’re plumb hide bound, and pite nigh out of touch,

And folks ‘ll say, “That’s how it’s always been.”and “It don’t matter much.” `

And folks ‘ll argue over minutiae and fuss and scratch and claw,

To make sure they get their share first, no matter there’s room for all. 

Why ever’ young ‘un in this country, knows how great this land could be,

If folks just remembered what it means to be free,

Freedom ain’t meant for some just to hoard and hide and keep,

It belongs to ever’ body, but of course, it don’t come cheap.

We all know the price, it’s paid in duty and in blood,

But it seems like here lately, that ain’t exactly understood,

There’s some that want’s t’ bully, and fight just ‘cause they can,

And tell ye it’s for freedom, but that ain’t exactly in their plan.

To them, “freedom” ’s just a catch phrase for stirrin’ up the crowd,

They wave the bloody shirt and they holler mighty loud.

But they won’t tell you nothin’ until you’re out there on the limb,

And you realize you don’t fight for you, you’re a fightin’ now for them.

Oh, sure, them and their buddies, who stand to gain from the scrap,

And they don’t care who it hurts or who falls into their trap,

‘Cause mostly the fall out, (if they have any luck),

Will land on the folks who clean up the mess; that’s how they pass the buck.

And now here I’m gettin’ riled, and my dander ’s getting up,

We all know this stuff has gone on since Ol’ Hec’ he was a pup,

‘Course that don’t make it right, nor justify it at all,

But a man what’s always lookin’ down ‘s most apt to trip and fall.

I’ve got faith in our people, they’re mostly good at heart,

And when it comes to pull the load, they’ll mostly do their part,

I know it always hurts to watch family fuss and fight,

But they’ll figure it out between themselves and finally make it right. 

So, I wish I had more answers but all I can say is wait and see,

And trust in a free people to all want to remain free.

They have to trust each other, and believe in all man kind,

And in the end, as they say, “sight will cure the blind.” 

        Snakeskin on the front steps,
if only it were
        mine—

I was gifted
my first moon flower pods
at a seed exchange.

The concept was novel
at the time and much appreciated
in a small  cabin on the ridge

built with wood from an old goat barn
and reclaimed windows  
the sun poured in as if to bless those that partook.  

I selected a species I had never grown and sought advice  
on planting and cultivating the treasured vessels
anxious to place in earth.  

Opening the small envelope
I frowned when I saw shriveled specimens poured  
into my hand.  My friend told me to soak overnight,  

make sure to plant \so they trellised upwards  
 to create a nocturnal canopy of white pollinator blooms,
elegant like sister bridesmaids.

I turn you on             chlorine and all

dusk                                  greet Turkish blue suedish shoes
          and my neighbor 

grounding my feet to wisps of shaded grass on a bald north yard

periwinkles stretching out in their beds like unwoke men on subways

he asks if I knocked on his door while he was in the shower.

While I shower these baby plants

still surprised watering them in shade is harder than all the other steps to getting them to grow

I order                         more drip hoses
             half a dozen 

nice to have a neighbor who talks to me

it’s only taken four years

hoses clumsily snake around baby bolted lettuces

calendula yarrow marigold

newly chewed kohlrabi

and I wonder all night whether I should have sprinkled wldflower seeds on this area we flood together

I cant sleep, hands burn, try to fast,
finally break it to take the pain medicine

                                                                       whose mechanisms I still don’t understand

not opiate

not cannabinoid

but still
like them it

messes with my peace

once it wears off

it’s been nine months since last time

not pregnancy

just aversion to feeling shitty after medicine wears off, in general

I wander a house

eleven becomes Perry Mason three

PBS yoga five

dawn again

ive changed clothes twice

it’s been seven hours

everything feels dirty

on this skin

when covid’s coming

or going

kitchen and bathroom sinks sing multimelody together

this Mongolian throat singing in of pvc

under-the-household music

I guess this makes the mouth our front door

as the plumbing hisses