After my grandparents died
the year I turned twelve, 
she was the closest I had.
She belonged to my best friend,
but had enough love for me too.
She wore her white hair
in pin curls and had it permed
at least once a month. 
She said warshcloth instead of washcloth.
She made polyester patchwork quilts. 
No fancy patterns, just a warm blanket. 
She taught me the first steps
of crochet, made me an afghan 
of granny squares
when I graduated high school. 
She had the biggest garden
I’ve ever seen outside of a farm.
She sat outside on the porch
summer days, rocking
until some signal we never heard
told her to get up. 
She’d wander that garden, 
so to pull a weed or two,
maybe pick some tomatoes for dinner, 
then settle back in
to rock some more.

most of the time 
the chamber is empty
spent days ago 
on something 
no one will ever read 

but I write out this poem 
knowing 
it’s going to give me a backhand 
say fuck
smoke two cigarettes 
sitting in a squeaky lawn chair 
wearing a set of faded boots
that want to kick 
in my teeth 

it’ll take a drag and look
over a set of pitch black 
don’t give a damn
sunglasses
tell me I wrote it this way 
so I’ve got no room to complain

In the arc of the willow’s bend
I fell in love again.
It was not the hardest thing to do;
a stitch, a smile,
a tire swing held up by a piece of frayed rope.
That was all it took.
It was a new set of tires,
love is broken knees,
the juxtaposition between grassy sidewalk and busy street.
In the lines of a mother’s hand,
I fell in love again.

I realized as I was leaving work,
that I had been working the entire day

I had parted my hair on the other side
to cut it that morning,
the result was a whole new look
I placed a neon tye dye bandaid on my right arm
from the accidental fire ring burn
I made from a tshirt two wrist cuffs and a necklet in neon pink
that set off the all burgundy I was wearing

I’ve been creating my self
and something about,
recognizing the value of my work…
A woman screams from the sidewalk
while the hollow twisted tree screams
I’ve caught them both
with my field recorder

As I coordinated the location with
my co worker I referred to the trees
by their painting names, Pop Rackham,
Cathedral Tree, or even by description,
The cluster I painted from a distance
on my birthday
year before last.

What will this one be called?
The Scream?

Swimming pools
Hot dogs
Potato salad
Freezer pops
The smell of wood smoke
From a campfire
And hot chocolate
Graham crackers
Burnt marshmallows
On the end of a stick
Tire swing over the lake
Girls in bikinis
Boys in cutoff shorts
T-shirt tossed in the grass
A sandy towel
Shivering under a full moon

I really should reach out more, 

back to the old pot and steam
back to the savor in the air
when Dr. Tom was alive 
I was the cook, he the dishwasher

now i close all the doors to the kitchen
Penelope’s mom is neutral to me
but likes the way I feed her hunger
I barely try to keep to her good side

the precious butter, the blue throb
of shrimp, the sauce balsamic
a dish from my navy days,
it was how I won Dr. Tom’s heart

when Penelope’s mom tracked me down
(unbeknownst to me I was her grandfather) 
she was a little off-put I was living
with a man. she recovered
at the offer of baby-sitting services

just before dark the doorbell 
and wild barking are simultaneous:
two artist friends, their dog & gummies,
lo and behold the repast passes

When officers gave Rodney King 

50 blows with their whole bodies,

& metal batons, in tandem,

shot a stun gun at his chest,

on camera, 

there was no consequence.

His brown skin,  

size, strength, list of sundry sins

kept his suffering “other”

even though we all saw,

we all knew it had been

excessive, rage-filled.

Generational anger 

gathered its voice,

first in righteous indignation,

passive resistance,

but relief did not come,

so the warning was chanted:

No justice

No peace.

Fists smashed, glass flew,

arms threw flaming rag-stuffed 

bottles at businesses.

At the intersection,

Reginald Denny was pulled 

from his truck & sacrificed

by a mob seeking biblical vengeance: 

a cinder block to the skull

for a billy club to the face.

No justice

No peace.

I was just about the age 

my daughter is now

when I watched my hometown 

burn, that time.

This fall, I watched it again

from across the country, 

my old neighborhood on the news,

homes & businesses gutted

to charred skeletons. I tracked 

the flames like some 

predatory animal I had 

managed to tag,

on wildfire maps, 

calculating speed & breadth 

of the destruction

relative to my sister’s location.

Now we are witnessing 

the incipient stage 

of the next burning.

Workers ripped off the job,

parents torn from children.

The sanctuary city 

now a myth.

No justice. 

The underbrush is short, 

the people’s lungs

still clearing smoke

from the last inferno

but new kindling is growing, 

fed paper thin tweets 

written by gaslight

doused in the alcoholic breath

of the fire chief. 

No peace. 

someone told me once
“don’t shrink yourself to be held.”

and yet i still did.
pieces of myself so small
that i slipped between fingers.