After the wedding jubilation: radio silence.
Are they being held by pirates,
or more likely, lost in their bliss?

Helpless, are we, to the tide that pulls us under

It’s not our fault that we can’t fight back

Hopeless, are we, for the future that lies ahead

I can’t be held responsible for the consequences of my actions

Comfortable, are we, with the loss of life

That’s what gives us our freedom, right?

“Give me liberty or give me death”

Songs of a forgotten age

Ghosts of martyrs in our living rooms

Will we ever learn

That history repeats itself

That we cannot sit by

That there is power in our togetherness

Or will we sit and watch

While people die

While cities burn

While the world as we know it

Continues to be

Sunrise has turned south
Maturity has been reached 
It’s down hill from here

When my neighbor died
they put her kitchen things out
on the street. I now
use her sieve, her spatula,
her light blue cereal bowl. 

These streets are safe enough
for my children to ride bikes,
my husband and I to walk the dog
even in the waning light.
But each spring, I find shattered
blue eggshells scattered
along sidewalks, and in the yards
new grass shoots
up around a smattering of dead
rodents, mangled bones of birds.

I wonder what the robin
who sits high on the power
line thinks of this place, rampant
with baby-snatching squirrels,
murderous cats on the prowl,
even of a pair of vultures who appear
to pick apart fresh meat. How long
‘til his song becomes a world-weary
wail, lament for a neighborhood
gone to seed?

I’d gone to the bedroom

All but tucked in to the quilt

Just to realize I’d left the kitchen light on

Reaching for the switch I see the kettle on the stove

Steam rising from the top

I know If you were still here you would’ve chided me for

buying a teapot without a whistle

Because just like you I’m a little bit heedless

Maybe a little bit forgetful

But on nights I make tea and leave the fire still burning

I’ll look and see the kitchen light on

Because you are, still here

The squirrel can’t stay here, rotting in my garden.
So I push the tip of the shovel shallow
into the dirt beneath him, 
then scoot him the rest of the way on, 
black bean eyes open, lips curled back, 
body rigid as if frozen running. 
Flies buzz around us both, angry
at having their meal and their nursery disturbed.

The smell of leathery death, I nearly gag.
Only one smell as bad — bleach and decay,
the smell of the room in the nursing home
where my mother wastes away,
waiting for an end
that won’t ever seem to arrive,
the flesh refusing to quit the race,
her children waiting, our grief on ice.

I drop the squirrel into a white plastic trash bag,
tie the open end into a knot. 
Set the bag by the empty garbage cans — 
pickup day had just passed.

By the time it comes around again,
the bag shimmies, the dance of new life 
devouring the old.

Bleeping EKG. Metal bed
rails locked. Long green
hospital socks slipping
from shin to ankle. Catheter
hidden under a towel
because in this 24
bed county hospital – down
the pike from Carnival Foam
& Rubber – urine
is an embarrassment. Outside
the factory where they press
deck plugs & industrial
strength face shields,
dogwood petals float
like ripped silk in late day
light. Polyurethane fumes
spin invisibly. I spot
a big-rig on Gallatin Pike;
its rumble vibrates the purple
plastic tumbler on Dad’s dietary
tray. I am listening for his last
agonal gasp. I always wanted
to be the ideal daughter. The hospital
monitor goes flat. I cannot count
his inhales & exhales. With blossoms,
the wider world unfurls.