dust flies through the air

i used to think they were fairies

back when we had a book for DVDs

instead i have to search up

“where to watch the hunger games”

i miss physical media

my precious DVD book is hidden away

or sold long ago

the same day my faires turned to dust

and i forgot the color of my kitchen walls

was the day that little girl died

we moved like neon 
humming low beneath
a synthwave skyline
your breath slows
curving down my neck
a chorus we only remember

air static-filled
that VHS grain
flickering between 
want and rewind
until that bloom 
in our analog touch

we unspooled
like silver tape

in that geometry
of our shapes
we were infinite
intangible
open-mouthed 
glistening 

and no matter
how many times
it plays out

we land the same

A sprig of ivy,
rescued from the waterlogged
side of the house,
small leaves, early green satin,
struggles to reach top of
the glass, as a child reaches
in the deep end of the pool.

The tiny roots just
beginning to show in
crystal water, early
cream color cooled
with smooth pieces
of sea glass treasures
from another day.

The tumbler, a remant
from her child,
a whimsical scene from
the Great Muppet Caper
scrolled around its center,
colorful characters
remembrance of simpler times.

I remember that fateful day in April,
You drove right by my car
And stared into my window 
Til you passed me

Ever since then I have looked for you,
Looking through the windows
Of every black pickup,
Searching for your face.

My dad still talks about the time my mom
called our first color TV “the idiot box,”
and smashed it with a hammer.  

My therapist helps me see that Mom
envied the TV because she wanted
to be the center of attention.  

People with personality disorders get stuck
emotionally at age two or three, my therapist says,
and you don’t let a crazy person control you  

any more than you’d give in to a toddler’s tantrums,
which reminds me of a Twilight Zone episode
I saw on that old idiot box:  

Little Anthony develops god-like powers
but behaves like a devil. He can read
minds so when he makes and kills  

a three-headed guinea pig, everyone has to say,
“That’s real good. It’s real good you done that.”
When Anthony wishes his playmates away  

into a cornfield, everyone left says “Good,
real good.” When he sets a man on fire,
“It’s a real good thing, a real good thing.”  

But then Dan Hollis drinks some whiskey, sings
“Happy Birthday” to himself, stealing Anthony’s
thunder, and Anthony turns him into a jack-in-the-box,  

and “It’s good. It’s real good you done that.”
Surely Dan Hollis felt boxed in long before that,
and maybe it felt good to spring out of the box.  

That same year, in school, we made clay pots,
and when I got sent to the principal for smashing mine,
I said I made it and should be allowed to break it.  

I think of my sisters and myself as clay pots
that my mom made, and broke, and glued
back together and shelved to take down  

when she felt lonely for playmates, and I drink
in my therapist’s words like whiskey from a jar,
and Banish me to the cornfield, Anthony,  

if you must. I’ve got to get out of this box.

United we stand, divided we fall.
Great motto of our old nation,
lost to the ages due to greed and indifference.
You stand and we fall.

How to remedy the situation?
Our only chance
people letting go of distinctions.
Each other we embarrass, united.

With sober clarity, I am convinced,

All around us the world is made of dreams.

We control them, like some magical prince,

And by us too they can burst from their seams.

Some people dream in beds that are lofty,

Where echoes come back and meet them daunting.

Their tears are not seen as they fall softly,

I’ve lived such a dream, a dream so haunting.

Until I met Her, as she passed me by,

With her had followed her own lovely realm.

Away I was swept, with a relived sigh.

My dreams are now bright, with love at the helm.

How great it is to wake from a nightmare,

And to slip into the daydream we share.

Spotted beside the road
We stop and stare

She stands still
Frozen, watching us

Her naked beauty
Sleek smooth pure

In all her unguarded splendor
She is our gift

Before the next moment
Bounding away, into the forest

Like some weird parrot, you ride
along for my morning walk,
golden legs akimbo
as you get your bearings.

You peer both up at me and ahead,
large, red, compound eyes
protruding like the ping-pong  
eyeballs of a Muppet. This close,

you seem a bit cross-eyed,
pseudopupils appearing
near the ocelli at the center
of your lacquer-black head.

The sun is warm, and halfway
around the block you chirp
thanks and farewell then clatter
off to a neighbor’s crabapple.

They’re 19 years old, at the very least.

The daffodils were there when we moved in. Along with the kid’s signature in the driveway and the weird rose bush that was red the first year, died back to roots, and then was yellow and orange afterwards. An enigma.

They were under the scrubby magnolia tree that has been gone for years. Next to the succession plantings of bushes that subsequently all died too.

Always 2 or 3 white and yellow flowers, never more, despite planting bulbs numerous times, which apparently was just a monumental waste of time and money.

That was enough, and we tried to pull them out, repeatedly. Like a weed, like the mint volunteers that dominate the front planter.

And then buried them deep, inadvertently, during the pandemic..
What wasn’t buried then?
Redid the stairs and built a concrete wall directly on top of them.

We felt a little bad.

Just to watch one. single. daffodil. pop up the next year.

We gave up.

Whatever wants to live SO MUCH. Earned the right to do so in peace.

And now, years later, there’s a bunch, just 2 or 3 white and yellow flowers, never more, half smashed under the wall. Popping up through the snow, when it’s way too cold for anything to grow.

A defiant middle finger in the air to our attempted annihilation.

I feel there is a lesson to be learned from those daffodils.