If you were alive today, would your fig tree be an abundance of pickings?

The trunk is a fat engine: a world of energy, of engineered solutions for optimized solutions to minimize uncertainty and risk. The low-hanging branches are leaves of sustainability, drinking the warmth of the sun so it may exhale with life. The engine keeps these leaves alive, tasked to create more green, to drink more sun.

Another branch is as lithe and inky as a pen: a canvas of color, blooming with delightful smells along the twiggy wood, fragile and beautiful. Each flower follows different patterns and paths, shivering with truth and knowledge. One flower whispers to be a doctor of philosophy, another exclaims to be a poet, and another shyly admits to be a fiction writer. Their stories are alive, pollinating the air.

A different branch has matured: strong and stable, ripe with juicy figs, but far too high to reach by myself. Some figs are bruised, therapized by the protected young figs, inspired to let go and fall so it may be hugged by a human palm. Other figs are plump and hardy, ready to burst with juices so it may speak about its humble fig journey and inspire fellow fruits.

Which branch would you pick, Sylvia?

As I wait for an answer, leaves and flowers and figs fall down by my feet, one-by-one, wrinkled and dead, until there is nothing left to pick.

This poem is not about me,
or you, or us, or anybody,
or anything shared amongst
anyone. This poem is not
about space or loss or time;
this poem is not a poem,
and I am not the speaker,
and you are not you.

This poem is not a poem,
or a journal entry, or a confession,
or an extradition; you are
not a priest, I am not
a confessor, and there is no reader
to speak of.

Sleeping past my alarm 
Hiding under the blankets
The lullaby on the window

The horses splash among the mud
My shoe squishes in the grass
The party must go on

The fear of summer ending
Already approaching my brain
Like thunderclouds rolling in the sky

Can a hard day be a good day?
All my days are hard since my son died
Deep sadness, tears, raw and battered heart
But good moments give me a glimpse of happiness
Coffee with a dear friend, a purring cat in my lap
hearing from my oldest son, friends showing their love
in many different ways, spending time with my husband
All beautiful moments but the grey cloud of grief still lingers
I have heard that it gets better but right now it takes a lot
of energy just to make it through the day
Can a hard day be a good day?  Yes, it can

Light and dark, playing off each other.
Some days the dark is like the bottom
of a well, sunk down so deep there is
no way back up. 

Political assassinations. Machines
of war parading down our streets.
Bombs. Missiles. Countries intent 
on beating each other up. 

Sometimes the dark is the calm of night,
light of stars and fireflies flickering.
The marching feet, tens of thousands
saying No. The beleaguered hearts

that still care for, feed, house the others
the darkness fears. The neighbor who mows
an elder’s lawn. The child who defends
the weird kid from the bullies.

The church that still helps refugees
find homes. The last government
employees still trying to protect us
from pollution, disease, storms. 

You wore my “no” down

into a “yes.”

And now I can’t forgive either of us.

i want to say something deep about how your mouth is the organ of learning and how you won’t be content until all knowledge has dammed up your gullet,
but every bite you bite hurts so damn much
(not to mention you hurtle like a torpedoed bullet into my bruising legs,
even hewed your claws scratch welts to complement the flash of chewed up flesh that decorates my arms,
your mother weeping ‘no!’ and ‘ow!!’ and ‘how!!!’ shakes me from every sleep,
and not to be crass but you have an asshole shaped like a cracked walnut rarely covered by your whacking tail.
oh and the glaze of piss you’ve blanketed the world in kind of skeeves me out)
baby i can’t fill your cup if you keep spilling mine

IN THIS YEAR OF DEAD THINGS
THIS IS WHAT YOU MUST KNOW:
ONE. YOU WILL NEVER FORGET THE SMELL.
TWO. DOUBLE BAGS. TRIPLE BAGS. 
THREE. YOU WILL NEVER KNOW EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED.
FOUR. YOU WILL GET USED TO IT. 

I found you there, hiding but not hidden. Behind my
rear tire. You dragged yourself there and rested— it took
all you had. It didn’t matter. 

I found you there, stiff and bloody. You were so much
larger than I thought. The flies knew you just as well. 
I struggled to pick you up but I did not drop you.

Will they find me here? In this year of dead things,
when will it be my turn? I will bleed into soup
and birth maggots like breathing. I see it in my
dreams. There will come a day when I blink and
find I cannot open my eyes again.

on the inlays