Second Thoughts
I got use to the idea
Of never being happy
But when the morning erupts
And I see second chances blooming
I have second thoughts
I got use to the idea
Of never being happy
But when the morning erupts
And I see second chances blooming
I have second thoughts
I want to write
something beautiful,
something to honor
his memory. But
everything I muster
through the tears is worthless.
I can’t even begin
to describe every ‘good night’
I heard as I left his room,
or the funny
little comments he made
just before bed
and right as I woke up
(three hours after he had),
the meatball recipe
that no one other than he
can recreate as
deliciously as he did,
or how it’s going to feel
tomorrow walking
into that funeral home
we left only
eight months ago.
I was 16 when I learned that the French change
their verbs when talking about
suggestions and emotions, as if these subsets of thought
were so powerful that they commanded entire grammatical systems
to change and orbit around them. The verb ‘pleurer’
(to cry) is one of those verbs that can change,
but it seems to remain the same,
as if the catharsis that comes at the end
of a sad-song, stuffy-nose downpour
is too powerful to be changed
by the voices of an entire country.
I was 17 when I had that sweet epiphany,
that ‘pleurer’ stayed the same when talking
about me
and about you.
As ‘se tenir’ (to stand) changed from
‘Je me tiens’ (I am standing) to ‘que je me tienne’ (My act of standing is dependent
on someone or something else’s advice),
‘Je pleure’ (I am crying) remained ‘que je pleure’ (My act of crying is dependent
on someone or something else’s actions, but it remains constant).
Today, I am 19 and the streets of America are red with innocent blood,
spilled by those who swore to protect us. I wish to wrap my fingers
around their heads and tell them
‘Je veux que tu pleures’ (I want you to cry, for your crying is dependent on my desire)
just to see if they would respond with ‘Mais je pleure déjà,’
(But I already am crying).
Je doute que tu pleures.
(I doubt that you are crying, for your eyes
are not yet red with the cathartic sting
that every other American has felt by now).
Strolling through
the woods,
the dappled
sunlight dancing
in the wind casting
droplets of pure
bright light out
across the
darkening hollows;
evening bird calls
and busy squirrels
echo along the ridges;
deer tracks stretch out
along the trail
in front of me.
I take slow,
even steps
and breathe
in fresh cedar and
honeysuckle vines.
Climbing the hill
opens up the canopy,
and the breeze and sun
sweep past me circling
through leaves ahead.
I trace the ridge line
with the sunset and
creep down the
old logging road
right at dusk
just as the
lightning bugs
rise up to
light my way.
Looking back, I spent my childhood
surrounded by greenery,
short hikes and treehouse-turned-
suburban sacrifice-
well, we called it that. That
lightning-strike overturned accident
shelled in plywood and wayward nails,
OSHA be damned. We’d tuck ourself away
concealed by a sorry excuse for a canopy
and return by nightfall clothed in
scrapes and bruises, badges of
honor, proof we were still kids.
Do you remember the “construction”?
Bulldozed plains from which a
neighborhood erupted. Trees
torn asunder whose skeletons were
used for housing. We’d stand in the rubble
and throw boomerangs as tribute,
watching the fade, the arc, the return,
the five-minute search that followed
as we scoured each scattered upshoot
of grass for another chance at success.
We’d turn them in for skateboards,
keep the change,
the scrapes and bruises,
the snaps and pops of wood
transformed, deformed,
redefined as our surroundings
lost their leaves, their luster,
their lives
as this neighborhood expanded
in a deforestation of definition
where every home became
seperate and unequal
and every board bought
broken.
I’ve moved away
in the months and years since,
built an alter to that treehouse
in my marrow,
hoping to venture outward
and search for home.
In the middle of your garden
There’s a birdhouse post that’s lost
Its birdhouse and has become
A sentinel for hungry intuders
Today I am insistent on its removal
And bring the iron digger to bear,
Sweat and the strike of stone slows
My progress enough for you to come
Out of the potting shed to halt
My excavation. Your answer to my
Argument puts my position aslant:
Husbandry is not failure or success
But the ability to see what’s needed
Dead leaves crumble on the ground
And June has been about
Keeping my shit together
Blood flows on the streets
And the culprits
Wear blue
My mask seems heavier and heavier
I think I may get a new one,
Seems like I’ll be wearing it for a while
I’m getting overwhelmed easily
And my paint is dripping
Into ideas
I may just be an artist now,
I’m not sure
I’ll probably change my mind when I go thrifting
you’re like pouring
the fifth glass of wine,
when i was drunk
after the second;
i don’t need it,
but goddamn,
does it feel
so good
The baby’s lips moved, forming shapes–not words
not letters, not sounds, but the shapes she’d need to make them.
She trembled, she focused, breathed heavily, adjusted:
upper lip, lower lip, tongue, chin and jaw. With success,
she flailed her arms and legs in elation. It was just practice,
it was everything she had; it was a matter of time and all that mattered.
