April 2020
“No, not anymore,” I say.
It’s just a matter
of which details to include.
contents spill to the floor–
there is no running away–
I sleep in the unmade bed,
the singular mattress of my cradle
as my pillow.
curls its tail
and takes a nap.
It’s always been
the little things,
small grains of sand
that pack the foundation.
I relearn what is essential,
balance worth on payday
by my smile lines.
balance worth on payday
by my smile lines.
It’s always been the little things,
small grains of sand
that pack the foundation.
The norm settles in
curls its tail
and takes a nap.
shove a spade in red clay
that holds water like a sponge
and repels it with ease.
I pull until roots free
and plant wildflowers
by the mailbox–
no postage necessary.
polar opposites and the necessity
of seasons– that sustained
happiness is not actually joyful–
what beauty is there in landscape
without the movement of shadow?
the moment will be nothing
but its complexity.
I walk to the street
and the penny is there.
I crouch to inspect
new tread marks, to see
if its been flipped over,
taunting someone to pick it up.
the “fuck it” feeling.
It comes right before
turning up the music
and drowning out all
that is not rhythm.
sounds its way
through an intersection–
a hello, a warning,
an “I’m here, I’m here”
echoing into the vacant night.
It’s quiet here,
the occasional muffler,
a quick stomp on the gas pedal
but mostly frogs and crickets,
thunderstorms that rattle
my bones back to the days
when I could stay in bed
all day pairing my heartbeat
with every crackle.
and laughter blew in–
honed into a point,
a fantasy, a wonderment–
like a snowball collects
or a rock slides, I’m fresh
with all the selves I bring
wherever we meet,
I will be there with puzzle pieces
in my walking shoes.
I would never be seen.
Friction.
Inappropriate yodeling.
[A Cards Against Humanity haiku.]
the blood is warm,
words are shaped
by the mouths
of ink wells.
unless
it’s my inability to focus
on anything but the frayed ends
of my hair, the light
between leaves, and
the bearded iris
as its lower lip opens.
through the hours,
the tick of the branch
in the wind, my face
in the sunshine
before turning back
to the work.
to gather, the frost
of winter when I can
fuel my body with food
and sleep for months
but it’s spring so I
untuck the garden, tend
what will grow, plant
and plant and plant until
no one focuses on the distance
but on the beauty that blossoms
between us.
she says yes to the heartache
and its petals bloom
from the murky water.
resistance is the bloom–
the hard part is learning
when to embrace
and when to let go.
of years that tell me
to sleep, sleep–
there’s still more to do.
this too
will be a story.
in the grass underneath
the bird feeder–I catch
a glimpse of hope in their eyes
and wait for their gymnastics.
slows my pace–
I wait for the monarchs.
the arms and legs at rest,
a thunderhead rumbles
like wheels carrying what was
into what will be.
from room to room
but it’s all I ask–
forward momentum
and a chair by the window
sprinkled with light.
and don’t believe
it will end, like the long days
of infancy where weeks
are years, and moments whittled
to fine points of weariness and awe.
into walls–the kitchen,
the six-year-old’s,
the unfinished projects.
I do this over and over
believing there is a door
somewhere.
from the soil
and I don’t know
what sprouts in the garden–
no matter–
I welcome the unknown
summer menu
and savor
the sweetness of surprise.
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