this lead organ peeking beneath
my rib cage sheath, cracked and weary
turn this dull heart to noble gold
and promise to hold it dearly
just behind front door autumn wreath
making out, tongues soaked in whiskey
we puddle up on the landing
love soaked arrows keep us tipsy
My young garden calls out to me, chirp
by chirp, where sparrows sing sweet, sweet, sweet,
then trill in gratitude for bee balm—
blazing purple bursts of fireworks—
and lavender sparklers of liatris.
They praise dahlias’ dinner-plate heads,
folded creamy petals where legions of bees flit,
and the upright sunflowers,
the tallest birdfeeders in this haven.
They belt out for all the flowers in between.
To whom did these flighty creatures
once call out their gratitude?
Color from across the centuries-old
pasture catches my eye. Wildflowers populate
the grasses, sown by years of northern
cardinals, Carolina chickadees,
and tufted titmice dropping seeds with blue
jays and gold finches. A mourning
dove’s familiar coo-ah coo coo drifts
down from above. I look
back at my new sowings, then out
again at what their scatterings have built.
I close my eyes and bow my head
to the true keepers of this color-filled song.
(After watching Cooking YouTuber Ethan Chlebowski)
Among twenty temptations
I dragged a pen across the white door frame
To show Icarus’ height above the driveway
When he realized the sun had moved
To a different neighborhood.
“It don’t shine on the same crowd
All the time,” said Job, alphabetizing scabs
In a filing cabinet plated in pyrite .
“A finish line,” Lazarus said with baffling snicker
As he smudged the line’s blue ink with his thumb.
“This is not a miracle,” the billboard mumbles,
Air quotes like cocked eyebrows
Discarded to the side
Above a secondhand shop, Puddin-N-Tane.
“A tight rope,” said Sisyphus,
Though no one knew why.
Then we saw an ant balancing on it
As it crossed the threshold. It tore
A fly—tattooed days before to the wall
By a swatter—in half, even though it was already
Little more than a collage—thorax, wings,
A thousand eyes.
“Ah, yes,” I said, thinking of new ways to frame it.
“Ayes,” added Long John Silver, prompting
Baffled glances all around.
Then autocorrect chimed in on the mark:
“it’s not a line, it’s a limb.”
We all looked at each other with genuine concern,
Heard a “crack!,” and fell through the bottomless shades
Planted below the tree of knowledge.
It’s over between us
there is nothing more to say
after you tell me birdsong is actually male birds posturing
warning each other
vying for territory
sometimes cawing immitatively
to trick females into fear and then
offering them a place to stay.
Have we not been through that enough
in
real
life?
how do you expect me to go on?
I thought we came out here to soak up
the yin of this tree the soaked chlorophyllic propaganda of lolly and boxwood
but all there is is the cacophany of male measuring racket in my ears and a park I used to go to all the time that I cant go to now since the new wifi tower has been put up across the streeet putting the feeling of wolfpaws back into my tendons and tearing them to shreds
don’t you understand how solitary a life an immobile body has?
How far I moved from the city to keep my pain manageable
away from towers
submerged in these lollytree woods?
how can you still love the outdoors
still love a forest
still know peace
when the lullabies in these trees
are just dinosauric catcalling
alley fights
waiting to
happen?
Why couldn’t you have told me everything
except
that?
I know ruth bader ginsberg always said the key to a good relationship is selective deafness
but I havent mastered that yet
Why couldn’t you have told me everything else
about the world,
except
that?
I order my third genetic sequencing service.
This one checks more markers.
I am full of questions and hope.
I wonder if I’ll learn.
Why’d he tucked his money into the vents?
Is my snake plant is overwatered?
How’d she live so removed from her body?
Why didn’t he speak for two full years?
Why’d they kept all those junkable cars?
Who taught him to wad up tobacco in his lip like that?
Why didn’t she want to see the ocean?
Did he know how to ride a bike?
How do I know if the tomato is ripe for pickin’?
Did anyone every dust off that old telescope?
Why’d they fill the medication they never took?
Did they really prefer Diet Rite?
A basketball swings
around the perimeter.
Hand to hand.
The point guard sees something.
A cutter appears.
The ball arrives exactly
where it was needed.
For a moment,
everyone involved
looks like they knew
what was going to happen.
Sometimes you throw the ball
and no one catches it.
You cut toward open space.
No pass arrives.
You spend months
perfecting your timing
only to discover
the other person
is playing pickleball.
Dink.
Pop.
Doink.
Dink.
Pop.
But every Monday evening,
the basketball leaves a hand.
The pickleball clears a net.
Someone calls for the ball
and someone answers.
For a moment,
movement is answered by movement.
Attention answered by attention.
The rare and beautiful experience
of not carrying the play
by yourself.
lust – i’m smugly pleased i grew up before internet porn
gluttony – why didn’t they think of door dash sooner
greed – capital gains offsets are not greedy
sloth – see gluttony
wrath – the bitter partisan collapse of comity in our political institutions
envy – ’69 Camaro RS glacier blue convertible white top with the 350 small block v8
pride – i’m proud i still have my looks
High above the hollers deep,
Where the laurel shadows creep,
Past the creek and through the pine,
Stands a cabin lost to time.
Folks say lightning split the sky
The night they heard her newborn cry,
And the owls all ceased their song
Like they knew she’d not belong.
She grew up wild on Blackthorn Ridge,
Beyond the river’s narrow bridge,
With raven hair and eyes of gray,
Like storm clouds on a winter day.
The old wives whispered at the store,
“That girl’s touched by something more.”
When crops would fail or cows go lame,
The mountain witch would get the blame.
Yet when fevers burned a child,
Or winter storms grew fierce and wild,
Those same folks climbed the ridge at night
Seeking help by lantern light.
She knew the roots beneath the stone,
Every herb the woods had grown.
She’d brew her teas and speak no word,
While outside foxes gathered, stirred.
The wind obeyed her, so they swore,
And black bears slept beside her door.
Even copperheads would slide away
When she’d walk the creek at break of day.
One autumn evening, cold and still,
A miner vanished near the hill.
Searchers combed the forest floor
Till they could search the woods no more.
Three days passed beneath gray rain,
And hope had nearly slipped its chain.
Then down she came from Blackthorn Ridge
And crossed the river’s crooked bridge.
She said, “He’s trapped beneath a seam
Where water runs beneath the stream.”
The men just stared, but followed through,
And found the miner where she knew.
Still they feared her all the same,
For mountain hearts are slow to change.
They thanked her once, then shut their doors,
And spoke her name in hushed folklore.
Years rolled by like creek-swept leaves,
And frost grew white among the trees.
One winter morn she disappeared
Without a trace, as some had feared.
The cabin stood another year,
Silent now and dark and drear.
Then one night a fire’s glow
Lit Blackthorn Ridge beneath the snow.
By dawn the cabin had turned to ash,
Gone as quick as lightning’s flash.
Yet travelers say on moonlit nights
They see a lantern’s distant light.
And if you’re lost in mountain fog,
Or hear strange footsteps through the bog,
A woman’s voice may call your name
Soft as smoke and bright as flame.
She’ll guide you home through storm and pine,
Then vanish with the morning shine.
And old folks smile and softly say,
“The Witch still walks these hills today.”
