This jar I hold is a prison
The cup you wield, a jail
The water I pour
freshened with a fig
What I have for sale

Is this enough for me to explain
Why today should be this way
When your glass is empty
I’ll be around again

It’s always unexpected when
the musty smell of a book,
music of Leonard Cohen,
or news item from Idaho, evokes
longing for the man who pulled
me into the queue for class
registrations so many years ago.
I knew breaking line was wrong
but I nestled next to him
and lost my heart to the Navy
veteran I’d met in German class
the semester before. Tall, blond Adonis,
he plucked me, shy. socially inept
and insecure, from a swamp of despair
and self-loathing, convinced me
I was attractive, desirable, my studies
in math and philosophy worthy of pursuit,
and our future together bright with possibility.
His arms provided needed sanctuary
and helped me unfold the wings
with which I would ultimately fly.                                                                       

I just want to form lines in a way that’s 
understood even if I have to get loud,

thinking of the July 2022 flood on the 26th anniversary of my mamaw’s death

I know I can’t prevent every bad thing
or always fix whatever ends up going awry
or protect my kids from all the ways they could suffer.

I know there are unfathomable scenarios in a few
remaining rabbit holes my brain hasn’t made its way down.

But the pull of motherhood to step in and try anyway
is too great to ignore, especially when I already know
how deep it can go, how hurt can cling to your skin,
echo down into your bones, decades later.

Wanting my babies to know the riches of this world,
to experience the rush when it all works out,
when life is sweet with sunshine and good times
despite ongoing turmoil clinging to the fringes.
My babies, now teens, with their own ideas
shaping how they move through this existence,

and I can’t always save them from those gut-wrenching
reality checks we often must survive—
how we can’t hide from hard aches
or we miss the tender spots too—
and somehow, pain makes the promise
of joyous moments feel all the more sweet
defying wounds again and again despite the scars.

But dammit, I can check the weather and pray it doesn’t rain.

You run
for your life,
avoiding
shots fired.

I sit
with a loaded gun,
waiting for you
to stop running.

by Quinn, just turned three
Discussed/written down by his Oma (me),
who dared to rewrite his last line.

A bat flapped his wings.
I saw water— it was blue

like my Oma’s pen. I smelled
pineapple and heard

a lemur scream.
And I laughed big.

Chittering protest

As I coax the exhausted pest onto my boot

His leathery wing matches that of 

The aged and scuffed footwear 

No amount of “easy buddy” or “big mads” 

Can quell the injustice of an eviction 

That they couldnt comprehend, 

Teeth bared that signify a swear. 

You wouldnt really consider this old building a bat cave. But then it isnt what you got with what you do, it’s what you do with what you got, and what one can bear. 

Wrong place wrong time seems to follow

Wether is white nose, rabies, covid

Or babies. Fear seems to be limiting 

Factor to those being able to care. 

I left them under an evergreen, away from the harsh sun, misfortune, and traffic. 

His home, safety, and rest still up the hill. 

Eyes closing, chittering softening. Back to daily fare. 

Fly well tonight little hero, may you return wild and free. The bat we didnt deserve, but one our world needs. 

She, hot red

lip and he, beached 

as a whale, sung

to their cocktails, Darlin’!

and, Come ‘ere darlin’

and, I got you babe, and,

I, sober, fell a bit

drunk in love.

Like truth and justice,
the darker grains hosting the
more wholesome of meal.

but he stomps his foot
on the church’s hollow stage
in perfect rhythm. 

How beautiful -– the feet of
a drummer without a drum.