mirror-moon and barely broken
downward dog and faintly spoken
i am hollow
i am raw
i am forgotten
i am refusal and predication
spitting out bitters
and smiling at wind-loose shutters
this is age and
this is mo(u)rning
and the narcissistic
narcissus
will never reveal
the long-etched key
to revival
.
.
.
there’s an oak tree
in the brush line
by the driveway
with a branch
that’s been hanging
since the ice storm
of 1991
i remember my sadness
at the damage of trees
i remember being young
and appalled
at life’s cruelty
i remember how
the basement flooded and
the lack of electricity
i remember that my parents
came to stay
it’s been 26 years
and that branch
is still hanging
and i wish i remembered
how to cling with tenacity
to a tree still growing
through bad storm
.
.
.
they said youth was the currency
and beauty the price
but we knew better
on the streets
of anarchy
where blossom
was never
as fragile
as ego
and thorn
was the tally
of vice
.
.
.
prom dress pretty
and filled
with fresh hope
the irony
of this tall vase of tulips
primp-sitting
all bare and innocent
amidst kitchen-table clutter
and the convoluted
detritus
of a too-busy week
but these are my days
and no matter how messy
there are always flowers
sometimes fresh
sometimes dying
sometimes too long
past gone
for shame’s sake
always
flowers
always a smile
on a short-sheet friday
and life’s
funny bone
antics
silk purse
sow’s ear
and all that
.
.
.
i live
in the land
of farms
people from
cities
don’t understand
what that
means
(i learned this
from a former
city dweller)
in my world
there is
space
.
.
.
wide field
deep sky
lone tree
standing tall
to guard
corn
wheat
or soy
in the
evening
driving
home
a lone car
on the road
in the
distance
becomes
beacon
for a
journey
never
traveled
.
.
.
i spent a year
listening
to grief and
revelation
hope and
degradation
i lost my voice
in the sound
of life
moving on
or death
pounding hooves
down fresh
black pavement
i’m here
now
on the
other side
of something
listening
again
to storm
and blossom
holding stories
in a heart
scarred from
blade
.
.
.
the face of truth
is marked
by shadow
you and i
think
we know better
but symbol
is all
that’s
necessary
in a world
molded by
glyph
we’re sure
we invented
shorthand
clever acronym
monument
but
we’re going
backward
in a world
losing time
carving lives
from bits
and pixels
and love
from empty
promises
filtered
imagination
so little
left
to recognize
.
.
.
suddenly
there is all this color
all this light
shining green through
blue glass
and
it seems absurd
to think winter
equals hibernation
but i awaken
and there it is
a new year
that did not exist
yesterday
.
.
.
the sun is shining
and the windows are open
and i am up early
making pierogies
i think about tradition
and the millions of women
who have stood at a sink
or a stove or a counter
smiling and singing
in a warm ray of sunshine
as they filled small houses
with smells of love
i am crying
(all these onions)
and i don’t need
to do all this work
this chopping
this repetitive
standing-up
oh-my-back labor
we could have had
scalloped or mashed
or baked, but
the sun is shining
and the windows are open
and i am up early
making pierogies
feeling blessed
and the voices
of those women
(those ghosts)
who came before me
are singing right along
in a harmony
of light
.
.
.
the world we sit in
and the world we live in
have become
two different things
by now
fifteen minutes
is the measure
of antipathy
and data
the construct
of worth
observation
has replaced
interaction
i see you
you see me
we do not touch
i know one thing
about you
you know
three things
about me
it all adds up
we can’t
catch up
.
.
.
