Glitter makes things sparkly and I use it all the time
Grace can never be over used and and it doesnt cost a dime.
Glitter comes in all shapes, sizes and colors that are special in their own way.
People are much like glitter and the grace we show makes for them a brighter day.
I will never let myself run out of glitter or grace and will always keep both handy.
If more people used these things more often this world would be so dandy.
I’m retracing my life, the lines of which
run in rapidly radiating circles of I’ve
been here before but this time… This time
I know some of what it means to shatter.
In a bar last night, I drank with a woman
who I knew from forgotten rhythms—
margaritas, salt shrubs & we watched
as everything broke down around us.
Glasses & bottles let loose to their own
jagged ends as if one loud, leapt noise
could make certain everyone listened:
yellow rose wine stem snap, five thick
bottles brash-cascade & then, at the
table behind us, half the whole spread
in a slippery clatter. This while we watched
& drank & laughed in a room that spun
until it pulled apart around us. All that still
made sense were my sterling silver
earrings in long tangled threads & the light
that lingered on the wish-thin straps
of her white camisole. When we shut
down the bar, we went to part ways in the
night-stripped heat of mid-June Manhattan.
Without thinking, I put my hand to my chest
or to hers or she to mine, right where our
soon-bare skin already shone an immediate
glisten. & something felt different, the kind
of blank gasp that starts inside all of our
growth. Here, at the edge of a darkened
room, my once-necklaced heart spilled open.
why am i the thing that
doesn’t get gone.
that holds feverishly
onto space
yearning for you
apathy
& all you are.
hollow boy (man)
quick to tell me you love
me, quick to
leave a nest i built for
us, for you
i’m nothing to
you now. dead
gone, a whisper
long nightmare
i feel like a cold corpse
trying to
haunt you. but i know you
shallow boy (man)
bet you’ve lost my
name & face
like we never
even met
Sitting with me on my porch
over breakfast, Louise Glück
talks about impending death,
her sister going to a place
where she could not speak. I listen
and look up to wave at a neighbor
trucking down his driveway, passing
my son’s pasture. There sheep
and goats graze, not thinking
of death, but separated from it
by a few thin strands of electric
fence. While we do our best
to keep our charges safe, we can’t
know how close we ourselves
are to the end—what might churn
in our bodies or be around a bend.
For this hour though, the air, dry
and cool, yields right-of-way to wrens’
exuberance. Safely at a distance,
a vulture, mute, mimics Louise’s sister.
What the hell do you expect me to do?
Watch from afar as the love of my life
Gets drunk and drives off of a cliff tonight?
And then what?
Then I’m still supposed to believe in love?
Then I’m still supposed to be believe everything I have was given to me?
Was planned out for me?
Was written in the stars
And designed for me?
When I’ve watched everything I love die
Inches out of reach?
Where I can see them, hear them, feel them,
But can’t touch them?
What does that leave me with?
And what does that make you?
A wall of eggs outstretched
the apples and walnuts chopped
carrots and cheddar sharp of course grated
not raisins no soltanas not good enough nope tart montmorency cherries dried
lemon juice just a splash
granulated sugar one quarter cup
mayonnaise the tang is just right scooped with no clear gauge
vinegar apple cider of course its sweet bitter meets the mayo and makes a marriage
one quarter cup
big metal spoon two hands hold the bowl several stirs and turns
just enough of a surprise making one scoop memories
the other relish something new
we elegant dance, we elegant speak, we elegant
wear pearls, we elegant leap. four self-portraits
of confidence surround a study of equal worth.
younger self—black silhouette, whose dance
echos seven times, looks up to stern older self,
says, don’t forget to feel joy. far left, an ageless self
faces away—red ball gown draped off-shoulder,
says, wear pearls, diamonds every day. real,
not real– just make sure they glow, you glow.
multi-media self, above center, in pressed white
paper wings, billowy pants and blouse of reds,
pinks says, leap high, fly, freedom-sing. freedom took
a long time coming, still does. white privilege can
say it understands, but never can know. i sink
in chair, listening in, nod—wordless. now
middle watercolor study—torn scrap of three
paint brushes, speaks loudest—we work
for a living–dip in-and-out of vivid colors—
flow life, remembrances across each sheet—
celebrate dreams, remember. art works
elegant-signed. treasured for their creator. treasured
for moments they impart elegant words to me.
when i sit still enough to listen in.
I’ve been getting lost in another family’s history, unearthing their stories
and the stones of old foundation walls in the rolling Ketucky hills and hollows.
I pried one loose today, from old farm dirt, like it’s been waiting for me all this time.
Bulldozers and death can’t erase all the memories, even when they try.
I didn’t know 20 years ago that one day I’d need to know how the air can be perfumed by sprawling tobacco leaves drying in southern sun, just knew I liked the smell that reminded me of some kind of deep, dark tea brewed from old men’s beards and ladies high heels.
Couldn’t have seen that my penchant for flea market shopping would help me save a stranger’s love story from mold and negelct and rabid crafters lusting for vintage paper.
Couldn’t have guessed that my personal quest to resurrect my own lost ancestors from the gaps of history would teach me the genealogy skills to help another family fill the holes in their skies.
All the books I’ve read, that Master’s degree I was afraid I’d never get to use, my innate love of asking the aged for their wisdom, of saving the forlorn, forgotten things,
all the lives I’ve already lived and all the places I’ve already been,
my own loves and losses and fears and falls, all
-all-
were preparing me for this adventure.
To gingerly unseal foxed and faded love letters, overflowing with passion, war, and poetry, to invite a new generation to fall under the spell of young Kentucy lovers long dead,
but alive forever in the sweet nothings penned by their innocent hands.
To act now as abbess, priestess, scribe, storyteller, protector
of a family and story now as dear to me as my own.
(thoughts on the excitement of working on my first creative non-fiction book, and my amazament at seeing how so many of my life experiences have been preparing me to tell this exact story…)
