Hex
frequently are native
fresh wounds bleed
curse demarcated friend
I found a pictues of my granddaughter
when she had moved out.
I was moving out as well.
The picture reminded me of something
she told me the first time she came to vistit me
at the lake house.
She was intrigued by my paintings.
It was late in my life when I moved past
an art teacher who told me I would never become–
an artist, for I could not draw a straight line.
I discovered Modigliani’s works and I was liberated.
He painted nudes.
He did not paint realistic faces, but more
liknesses of African masks,
when he had his first show in Paris,
the police came,
closed his program–
the reason they gave–
he painted pubic hair.
His work told me–
painting nudes–
does not require straight lines.
As for my granddaughter–
the picture of her was–
of her naked, she told me she like being naked.
I have yet to paint that picture of her–
I vow today–
to myself
that I am almost ready
to prove that art teacher, critic–
wrong.
I will have to say goodbye to
Walking and petting Sadie
Digging holes for bulbs
Laying back on the tree bench
Looking up through lacy sumac leaves
Reading all day
The peace & quiet of a childless house;
Trying to lose weight;
Hot yoga
Cooking meals
The hum of my sewing machine
Verbal interactions
Driving a car
Good, full body hugs
Endless weeding
The smell of mesquite in the heat,
The eye-aching azure of desert skies
Red rock formations, swirled and worn by wind
The crash of ocean waves
The grit of sitting with toes in the sand
On the other hand,
When I die
My spirit will be on the other side,
Floating free,
Reaching through the veil to pat a hand, to squeeze a shoulder
To whisper “you are loved”
The sun shone bright and the air was crisp
savoring textures
while i imagine flavors
based on memories
I feel so special.
I want to remember this
moment forever.
I am filth.
Not a metaphor, not an exaggeration—
a rotting soul wrapped in skin
that reeks of rebellion.
My hands, stained with
selfish gain and secret lusts.
My tongue, a dagger,
slashing truth for convenience.
I’ve asked to be seen.
I’ve wept, not from guilt or fear—
NO.
From knowing I’m exposed.
Every breath borrowed,
and yet I use it to curse the One
who gave it.
I continue to
masquerade in virtue—
festering behind my teeth,
confessions stuck
in a room of pride,
hate and envy—
sins I’ve rehearsed
until they feel like second nature.
I lie,
then lie about lying.
I withhold mercy,
expecting grace.
I use God’s name
like punctuation,
then dare to ask why
He feels so far away.
Justice pure—
I’m already ashes.
No trial. No plea.
Just the sentencing
of a rebel who knew better.
Eternal torment
isn’t harsh—
it’s fair.
To suffer alone in the darkness
I spent a lifetime choosing.
To be surrounded by flames
that cling to my selfish figure,
as my soul forgets
what light even felt like.
That’s the story.
That’s my story—
if mercy never bled.
If love stayed seated
and let wrath run its course.
That’s the ending
I wrote for myself
with every proud excuse,
every ignored Jiminy Cricket.
However—
My story was changed,
When someone else
stepped into the punishment
like a lamb into slaughter.
Too perfect to comprehend,
too holy to owe me anything.
Yet, He took everything.
The nails.
The mockery.
The weight of every moral corruption
I pretend doesn’t matter.
All of it—absorbed
by a Man who never sinned,
so I could be called blameless.
How dare I grumble
about the imperfections in my life
when He shattered Himself
so my own imperfections wouldn’t
consume me?
How dare I complain
about my thorns,
when He wore a crown of them
just to rescue me
from what I had rightfully earned?
No…
this breath I breathe,
this peace I feel,
this hope I cling to—
it’s borrowed.
And forever,
I acknwledge—
just who paid for it.
CW: death and suicidal ideation mentions
roll with the radio static a mile or more empty
minded,
painted with the smell of cigarette stink¹, hand that cut me off out the window metonymizing, knuckles to nails to embered monotony,
exterior air dousing
for water, for anything
through empty
stations
of ads and sad, sad songs and talk shows²,
and shouldn’t it be illegal for the atmosphere to be this empty?
filled in not with the fuel of sound i need to blot out how bad the beaded
water is, anything is
so hot,
how many people lie the way they do
beneath overpasses and pass over Regions Made Uninhabitable by Global Warning, more at 9:00
¹i can’t make you smell it if you haven’t,
gravel smelling, drandma slaying,
dry smoke to lungy tar like bank interest piling
up the way pennies do
²settle for Pearl Jam but i’d take
a tune that wants to die
down less than the way i do
