I am uncaged

What’s today’s date?
“SIX SEVEN!”
“4+4=ATE!”
“Clock it!”
“Tea, tea, tea!”
A little slang from Gen Alpha and Gen Z.

Busy days take it out of me.
Barely made it through.
Did my best, but now I see
There’s one thing left to do…

Y’all are working too damn much.

I worked for six days, 13.8 billion years ago
and baby? My creative ass is still resting.

“Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop,” is some shit Solomon made up to take the heat off that whole baby halving thing.
 
“Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” comes from one of those buckle-hat assholes from The Crucible trying to shame an already exhausted wife.

Take it from me, (Hello, I’m God)
idle hands are your God-given right,
and restfullness is next to Godliness.

That’s a commandment, damnit.

My mother says cherry like cheery, and I love
the bright sparkling sound of it. When she tries
to say warm it comes out worm, the soft O of her lips
not quite able to wriggle out the right vowel.

She does not say W like dubya,
to the consternation of her 8th grade English teacher.
(There ain’t no U in whittled, winsome, or weary.)

She says this heat is oppressive like this: “It’s hotter’n
Satan’s breath mints out here.”

She says my heart is breaking when she says,
“Your dad made eggs this morning and asked
if I wanted any,” and I say, “That’s weird,”
and she says, “Yeah, it was.”

When I ask her thoughts about my career, or God,
or if I’m ready to be a mother, she says
I have no fucking clue, and I’m terrified
I might tell you wrong, but instead
it comes out “I’ll be praying for you.”

And she does.

When she asks me what’s for dinner
and how I slept, over voice-to-text
and in her world-worn accent, she’s saying
I love you, I miss you, please forgive me.

briefcase full of company secrets
in the passenger’s seat
the Beach Boys’s biggest hits
over the recently repaired radio
four rubber duckies in four hawaiian shirts
walking in a line across the dash
the smell of last night’s pizza
versus the “new car” scented air freshener
one key with one Cleveland Browns keychain
stuck in the ignition

everyone remembers that snow
back in ’93
cooking over fires and thawing water
of kerosene-smelling clothes 
cold bologna sandwiches 

you were trapped in your house
emptied by the woman you loved
when she decided it was time to leave

I remember that winter because
it was the longest I ever
got to spend  with you alone
a solid week
building furniture to fill
that empty ancient farmhouse
with a dirt floor in the back room

you drank beer all day and night
shot moon whistlers through
the chimney
the scream and pop
muted by a snow-covered roof

it was the third time I saw you cry
when you called her on the phone
begged her to bring the kids home
told her that you’d do anything
to make sure to see your kids again
told me that you weren’t going to mess up
this time

played Conway Twitty on full blast

I wanted to remind you
that I used to sit on the phone
beg my father to come get me

but even then
at ten years old
I knew I had to be a man
stronger than you

I made sure the fire burned hot
knowing that I was never 
really yours

You and I alone on a wedding dance floor
trying to keep the party alive
The barn all dark save for string lights 
And soft purple
As we turned my views changed again and again
Over your shoulder, the bride and groom making rounds
Until eventually they came our way to say
There was one song left

Since the couple’s exit that night
The bride and I haven’t talked that much
If she called me right now I’d ask her about her new town
But in my memory of bouquets and string lights
There I’d still be
Wishing desperately for her and her groom
To join the dancers on the floor once more

Long gone are the days of
Mine and the bride’s school dances,
mornings waiting at the bus stop before school,
and choir rehearsals

Yes, I’d ask her about her town
I’d remember the wedding

But truly? Some 13 year old version of me would ask
some 13 year old version of her
How she’s doing now
with all this settling down 

And on the first day,
There was only silence,
A breath held between worlds,
A page waiting for ink.

And on the second day,
A word arrived—small, uncertain,
A single spark in the dark,
A whisper that dared to become.

And on the third day,
The world called to others,
And they came, tumbling, unraveling,
A sentence bending into being.

And on the fourth day,
Characters rose from the dust,
Eyes wide with wanting,
Tongues forming truths and half-truths.

And on the fifth day,
Conflict cracked open the sky,
Lightning flashing between paragraphs,
A storm of choices, mistakes, desires.

And on the sixth day,
An ending stood at the horizon,
Both inevitable and unknown,
Waiting for the writer’s hand.

i am my own
oracle.

what my stomach wills
must be so.

mother,
murderess,
mystic.

tell me what path
is not mine to walk
and i will show you
footprints.

i am both maker &
destroyer.

the king i built up,
the mage i cut down.

sword,
serpent-man,
stone.

tell me what men
say i cannot do
and i will do it
without an asking price.