And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses
Had the look of flowers that are looked at.
There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting.

 
 The roses had the look
 of flowers that are looked at –
 bruised thumbprints on their necks
 where someone stopped to smell and smile.

 One was a wound,
 open under a band aid;
 one was a thorn
 in the flesh of the night;
 one shivering, 
 the gray arm of the wind
 wrapped around her waist;
 one with petals like knees
 freshly scraped against the gravel.

 All blushing like actors
 caught mid-scene,
 unsure if the applause was coming.

Beneath the floral skin, 
a throb –
a secret pulse that
blooms and blinks
under the gaze,
like a held breath
waiting for the next one
to press close and say
they know the type
quite well.

They called him Indy.
When he moved in next door
had his own little house
near the wood pile.

Mixed blacks & browns
with a white brindle strip
a 60-pound nemesis
of every possum, squirrel,
snake and rabbit. They
laughed, said you could take
the dog off the rez, but not the rez
out of the dog.

Made friends through the fence.
I watched him age and slow,
using a sharp bark to make critters
pick up their paws.

We had a spot by the fence where
He would come for strokes. That’s
where I saw the cataracts. That’s
where I found the lump.

We knew it was coming. One morning
he stayed in his shelter. I crabbed over
the fence. Crying, I kicked a ghost hole
in the back of Indy’s hogan.
I can’t use his name anymore,
but the chindi is free.
Once a rez dog, always a rez dog.

as a child
i played ball for
our local moose lodge 
running, fielding, throwing 
i could have been
the say hey kid
of Chillicothe little league 
but i never swung
my bat
maybe it was some
sort of fear of failure 
or some other deep seated issue 
even Freud couldn’t analyze 
all i know is that
i went years without even
trying to make contact 
that metal Easton
sat on my shoulder so long 
they could have melded 
into one new cybernetic 
appendage
eventually i grew tired
of this self imposed 
routine of mine
so in the last game
in the last at-bat
of my little league career
down 0-2 in the count
i said to hell with it all
and i swung
on a fastball
straight down the middle 
oh how i wish
you could have heard the cheers 
of the crowd 
you would have thought 
H. Christ had come back for his encore 
but oh
how i wish you heard 
the silence 
as the shortstop grabbed the ball
and threw it to first 
and as the ump called me out 
as i was five feet 
from the base

#1 Fair Is

Fair is
Fairest will
Fair is wheel
Ferris wheel
Fair is not real
Fairest will always get the upper hand
Fair is a wheel—
a hidden driving force behind systems
Ferris wheel— a perpetual cycle, highs and lows, but still
only going round and round,
but no forward progression
I’m spent on this attraction—
financially and physically.

#2 “Did You Speak?”

The Black hello—or, speaking, as some may say—
is not worth much these days.
Respect seems optional,
or younger folks are oblivious.
It was once taught to acknowledge the ones who look like us.
To show solidarity in spite of the treatment from the ones who don’t look like us.
Because back then, we had each other’s backs.
Now, in a time where things are rolling back,
with blatant -isms present in person and online;
We’ve got to come together for the sake of our future and grow.
Let’s start with the minimum,
A head nod,
handshake,
“How you doin’?”,
or simply, “Hello.”

After turning by Lucille Clifton

This dangerous season
Grows heavy on the vine
Swelling with potential
Anticipation sweet on the tongue
The urge to pluck unripened fruit looms.

crawdads snails and striders
in pockets of droughted creek
with Evyn, who has been kind
since childhood, and wanting
to be that kind, the kind
of creature who bursts through
the water and makes grown
women laugh like babies
at Gulf Shores, remembering
their entire lives in full
upon the glance of a dolphin,
to be a knight in shining promises
pilling irises behind the miracle
that wishes you home one more
time before the firing squad
assassinates. turning to feel
the bonfire on the calves.
listening to Ocean talk or Ada
read. the pink bruise of meaning
kiss. understanding the joke.

Back

to

fingers

counting beats

on my desk keyboard.

Songs begin to bleed in cut time.

granny prayed tirelessly for hours on end,
while bakin biscuits and pickin blackberries
always worried, she’d leave out a name
an they’d surely be struck down
if she didn’t drop the dishes right then, gather us all up
to join hands an pray

papaw’s palm sat heavy in my right,
granny’s cold and slender, full up of ruby rings
linked in my left 
everyone meant to mumble their prayers aloud 
all at once 

this part was always easiest if it was just us three,
without the added holdout of chuckles
against my brother and cousin,
as we squeeze each other’s hands, hard as we can,
tryin not to be the first to end our prayers 

“Amen”, we’d have to say, 
keepin our heads bowed down
as granny kept listin out every person she’d ever met 
to be sure they’d not burn in hell 

sometimes i’d try to keep up with the names,
see if i knew a Mary Ann Sue, an what relation, almost wantin to ask 
at the end of the prayer 

knowin the picture books would come out 
an she’d be bound to call up somebody, i never did 
i’m now prayin i had 

Blessed are those who are empty.

Blessed are those with nothing to offer but the aching of their lonely bones and quieted sighs as it hushes past their lips.

Blessed are those whose chasms of the soul have unearthed bedrock, for how much more now are they to be filled?

Blessed are those who grieve, bereaved in the dust of their disappointment.

Blessed are those who mourn through the rising and setting sun like a broken dove, circadian irrhythm.

Blessed are those whose souls know wilderness is meant to unwind the flesh’s talons along their spine, not a place they must spend the rest of time.

Blessed am I as I hit the window, again and again like an asinine cardinal, and blessed am I all the more as I realize I am not meant to stay in the emotional burnout of this disappointment.

Blessed am I as he prepares a table for me in the presence of my enemies.

And blessed am I as I dine.

Do oysters treasure their pearls
or suffer them?

Are the growing gems 
   a constant annoyance?
   an out of place wrinkle?
   an incessant itch?
   or a comfort,
         something to hold on to?

Do they have a mother’s pride in
   their luster?
   their shape?
   their size?

With some species 
cultured pearls are harvested
and the oyster is reseeded,

like bitches in a puppy mill.