“Heaven must be a Kentucky kind of place.” – Daniel Boone

Don’t you think
the gates swing open

to a pasture, mares
grazing a green hill

at sunset, golden light
gilding wisps of mane

on the breeze, and velvet-
nosed foals to frisk

and frolic, a sky blushed
in eternal wonder, white

fences, too, not barriers
but hugs, gentle arms

to hold us, safe and warm
under one close star,

a kind, watchful eye
shining endless love?

quieting down days
not closing up  surprising
expanding within

I want to be in
places where poetry and
art are breath of life

my uncle can maneuver a stick shift around the tightest of spaces. tiny u-turns in this hateful village. year after year. he managed to quit smoking when we were born. i won’t call it despite, i’ll choose to see the help. the ancient mountains every morning and the gritting cicadas every night. it started when i needed someone else to feel safe. i know this now so i’ll never do it again. how many words a day is enough to feel like i lived it? he lived it? you lived it? the sun is going to hold us darker either way. in the morning i don’t have enough breath to yell over the waves, but i still want to hear what you have to say. there’s a rusted metal vertebra in the rocky gums of the shore, gaping jaw of this bay. a singular tooth to trip on. i could jump in without you. i could jump in without anyone. i could never be alone in this water, all secret creatures circling my waist and calves. oscillating. these things live in water, isn’t that clean? isn’t that amazing? the tempo doesn’t matter as long as the air keeps flowing in, out. no oxygen mask here, just myself. you don’t have a wedding band tan line and neither does he. neither do i. i don’t need to be naked to be vulnerable. not everyone knows that. hauling my body out into the late june breeze, licked by new friend. breeze familiar but never met this exact one before. never will again. every younger face on my skull, my friend. my friend.

at the sight
of speckled fawn

bedded down in
forest grass
easy prey

ripe for the picking
the doe does not
know you are around

first bite-
canid teeth sink in
blood smeared coat

griffling rough
three short bleats

silent jawed
teeth sink in
a little deeper

as much blood
as this spotted
baby can afford to spill

the scent of lessen
redbound lessons
less than seven days old

a limpen wound
will slow you down

as the pierced hole
closes on its own

the cry does echo
through the woods
and is lost to time

in diminishing circles
in waves of sound

as spotted fawn
stays crumple-
dazed

blooded
bloodled

bloodlust
brought you down

an exhibit spread out upon a table,
not etherized, no need for these long-
dead scholars, some of whom stare
down at me from somber portraits,
or even scowl,
as if to ask what are you doing here among us?
Luke Wadding,
Matthew ab Aquasparta,
Fidelis a Fanna—
scholastic magistri
searching nature and illumination,
cause and causality,
being and existence,
I have glimpsed them in these days
of living among them but not
of them, my own scholastic paradox.
I have crept into Plato’s cave
and spied the shadows and
discerned the grand scope
of all that’s hidden in these
brittle tomes, open here on the table,
perhaps even breathing,
through dust and distance,
their undying spirits.  

I sink inside myself, into poems—

Into mud of words to avoid the hot sun.
The inevitability beats down and I thirst;
I make promises to poetry about growth:

I promise to eat cake in front of the fridge
and curse instead of putting my head
in the oven. I promise to splurge on adjectives,
not love. I promise to chew up all my letters
as not to forget.

I whisper to the books and Anne laughs at me,
dares me to get meticulous.
She’s waiting for me
to go mad properly. I promise her
to cut myself up and out.Remove myself completely.
I promise to shut up and read.

And read, and reread for clarity, then write
without purpose. I promise to cauterize
the doubt until it’s an ink blot blood clot
And I am soaking in fear of
What might be written next— I choke on the sweetness
and the ache.

I have never known what love is.

I have never been so angry.

My grandmother
       switched from Schlitz to Michelob
             from single pearl earrings to mod clip-ons,
from Pall Malls to long menthols

She drove Route 66 to Vegas
          subscribed to B-movie mags
                  more Mamie Van Doren
than Marilyn Monroe, her curly blue-

rinsed hair flew like a swallow
          traversing the Mississippi Flyway
                    She ditched pillbox hats
& tailored Jackie Kennedy suits

for polyester pants & permanent pressed
             tops — geometric mazes, lava lamp swirls
                      neon bouquets, polka dots
the size of ping pong balls

She joined the Church of Velour
                 & never again ironed wrinkled shirts
                        wiggled into a Sunday dress
or confessed in a cloistered booth

Defined by her walk-in closets & rhinestones,
                we buried her in a silk-lined knock-off
                        Valentino gold pantsuit and double
string of polished pink simulated pearls.

I haven’t heard 
from him since Maman’s entire life shipped 
frozen—ropes frayed, packages whistling
in the cracked box crammed 
with clothes, moth balls, and dried fruits
from last season. She had barked, were you rocked 
near a wall? swiping the ladle from me, stirring 
the crème fraiche and butter, adding 
mollusks, and I swear, 
a little cider, a little salt, 
then a measure of wine to break 
open before dinner, I say damn!  
Damn. The smells before Maman’s cancer came:
Laertes, her chihuahua, and the nameless scent 
of a hospital, only she died 
at home, feathers beating, angels singing
Descartes backwards, I am therefore I think!

Keeping my distance from her, I’ve stood 
on fields and vast American mountains fretted 
with trees. Cabins my cafés and wind swept 
memories—then the snow-caps of winter frozen 
blue like North Seas—never lucky.

I think therefore I am in this terrible mood.

They kept 
ortolans and ravens—gray and night— 
and the pale flicker of candlelight slowed 
her heartbeat under her ribs.
I could not sense when her spirit flew,
but Papa kept 
affairs regular in their silence.  
Everyone in that room was a bird.

Eyes and talons so still you could see yourselves.

He says you’re getting 
better each time I come
But I want much MORE
to get rid of that blasted
Old lady rollator NOW!

                 “it is joy…nature makes…late as tonight”